New Blood
by Kepouros
Summary: Seraphima is a woman on the run from a colorful past. She answers a call for employment in London and is left to landlady Holmes and Watson. She's neck-deep in it, for sure: will the burgeoning romance between her and Holmes make a proper mess? COMPLETE!
1. Pistols and Carpetbags

It was a normally dismal day of weather in London. Torrents fit to drown a frog hissed from the heavens, running the sickly yellow pollen of spring into puddles both massive and small along the cobblestones. Smog continued to belch from the smokestacks of factories alternately close or distant. People hurried to and fro, ducking into closely built houses or huddling under store awnings as they awaited the rain's passing. Eventually, the streets were found to be bereft of occupants, save for one densely cloaked figure.

By the brisk walk and glimpses of a green dress under her traveler's hood one could infer her gender. By the carpetbag in her hand, it could be deduced she was on a journey. From the peeks of her tired, relieved face as she rounded the street post onto Baker Street, it was clear that journey was reaching an end.

She tilted her head, drops of water pelting her pale cheeks, to look at the numbers on the lanterned arches in front of the houses. Finally, she stopped under 221 Baker Street. She checked a pen-mark on her wrist to be sure of the numerics, and climbed the seventeen steps briskly. At their summit, she pulled the doorbell and shifted nervously on her muddy heels. Faintly, she could hear what sounded like muffled shouts, tempered pleadings, and once possibly the sound of glass breaking. This did nothing to calm her anxiety.

After a full minute, the door opened. A harried looking woman with wisps of hair escaping her tight bun and an anger-pinched face met her. "Come in, come in," she beckoned impatiently. Our weary traveler crossed the threshold into the foyer and relinquished her sodden cloak to the harried woman's quick hands. Her carpet bag, well-worn, thudded to the carpet.

"You must be Mrs. Hudson," ventured the traveler, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and attempting a friendly smile.

"And you are Sera Dubois," asserted Mrs. Hudson irritably. "Yes, yes introductions out of the way. Now let me show you around quickly, I must catch the 3 o'clock train or I will surely go-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" barked a man, coming into view. He was unshaven, with wild dark hair and half-open shirt, suspenders off his shoulders, and cuffs unbuttoned. His eyes were heavily lidded over shocking oceanic blue. Sera took a step back at what he had in his hand, gasping in fear.

"Holmes! Put that gun away!" snapped Mrs. Hudson. "You've damaged enough property without killing someone!"

Holmes looked confusedly at the revolver in his hand. Then, with a look of one approaching a tiger with a thorn in its paw, he crept forward and said slowly, "Mrs. Hudson, I apologize for not calculating the risks associated with my experiment to include your room being just below mine. I thought I was doing you a favor by not shooting at the walls again..."

"Favor! FAVOR?" spat Mrs. Hudson, advancing menacingly. "The only favor you have done me is enlightening me to my psychiatric affliction." She now hovered just below his nose, glaring up into his unkempt face. "By the saints, that is surely what ails me. To think, I stayed here ten years, putting up with your insanity!" she actually screamed the last word, her voice going up several octaves.

"Now, see here," started Sera in a soothing tone. She has preparing to step between them when Mrs. Hudson whirled around.

"No! I am late for my train." Mrs. Hudson took a coat and cowl down from the coat rack, whipped them on, and stooped to pick up a large suitcase. A clattering of hooves came from the street, and a loud neigh. "That will be my cab," said Mrs. Hudson with obvious relief. She opened the door.

"Wait! Mrs. Hudson, wait!" called another voice from the house. A man with a cane, meticulously shaved mustache, and proper English waistcoat and jacket rushed onto the scene. He caught the exiting woman's elbow. She shoved him off hard and said, almost desperately, straddling the threshold, "Dr. Watson, this is Sera Dubois. She is my replacement."

"But, but..." stuttered the doctor, glancing to Sera.

"Perhaps she will be of a better disposition to deal with you and your crazy friend's antics!"

"Be reasonable, good lady. Surely you don't mean..." started Holmes.

"Oh, but I do, Mr. Holmes," replied Mrs. Hudson silkily. She turned squarely to face them, drew a breath, and bellowed loud enough to echo down the street, "I QUIT!" Then she spun on her heel, tripped down the stairs, and disappeared into the waiting cab, leaving the trio in the doorframe to their unforeseeable fates.

Watson sighed dejectedly and closed the door. It felt like the storm outside had somehow transferred its restless energy inside. Sera was vaguely aware of Holmes putting the pistol in his waistband and turning to go up the stairs with a shrug. "Oh, no you don't," said Watson hotly. "You have some explaining to do, Holmes."

"There is nothing to explain," replied Holmes with a neutral voice. He flicked a spec of something off the banister. "I have been telling you for days of Mrs. Hudson's impending termination of employment. You ignored my warnings."

"Wait, you read our correspondence?" asked Sera with shock. She was quite ignored.

"Naturally, I steamed the letters open before she got them," said Holmes quickly as though this were commonplace. "But that is quite beside the point."

"And the point is?" prompted Watson with growing annoyance.

"The point is you knew this would happen sooner or later," shrugged Holmes. "Why such surprise?"

"I am surprised that you shot at our landlady!"

Holmes looked a little put out. "I assure you, I did not shoot _at _her. If I had shot _at _her, I would doubtlessly have hit her. Though my aim is nothing compared to yours, of course, old chap. The circumstances that might have put her in my sights, however, are beyond me."

"HOLMES!" exploded the doctor, making Sera jump. "Then why in heaven's name was she driven to leave our employ under the pretense of having narrowly escaped death by bullet?"

Holmes livened up considerably as he explained, "I have been working for days on this gun, Watson." He pointed the revolver, causing the other two to duck with alarmed exclamations. "I have taken the traditional elephant hunting rifle, broken it down, and married its phenomenal power with the compactness of a simple pistol." He seemed pleased, the most pleased Sera had seen him since walking through the door. "Whilst enacting your latest request that I not shoot holes in the walls, I decided to shoot at the floor instead. Having no inkling whether the power of the weapon was truly like its elephant hunting father, I underestimated its potency. The bullet went through the floor and nearly through the unfortunate Mrs. Hudson."

"Holmes," groaned Watson, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, Watson, that is my name," snipped the untidy man. He climbed a few more stairs, then said over his shoulder, addressing Sera, "We eat dinner at six. I will not be joining you."

"Y-yes, Mr. Holmes," replied the new servant, drawing up straighter.

Silence descended on the foyer. Watson, perched on his cane, shook his head. "I apologize about him. Should you decide to stay after all this, you will doubtlessly have to take his apologies through me."

"Oh, that's alright," said Sera automatically.

"No, it's not," said Watson sternly, glaring up at the ceiling. Rapid violin scales were drifting between the floorboards, reaching a feverish tempo. "He's on the needle again," he sighed to himself. "When he gets bored, he...Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sera. It is Miss, right?" He customarily kissed her hand.

"Very much so," replied Sera. "And from what I can infer, you are Doctor Watson?"

"Yes. Let me show you around. Here. I can take that bag." Watson hefted the bag with his non-cane arm. A clinking sound came from within, muffled by clothes.

"You packed glass? I hope it did not break and ruin your clothes during travel." He led her to her room, previously Mrs. Hudson's. Watson set her bag on the bed and, with another sigh, threw back the covers and fished in a hole in the feather mattress. With an air of victory, he tossed and caught a metal slug in his palm. They simultaneously looked up at the ceiling again, and found the entry point.

"She must have just finished making the bed," inferred Sera.

"Lucky. Quite lucky," murmured the doctor. He tapped his cane once and walked from the room, favoring his leg. "Don't worry, I will have Holmes patch it up. I will leave you to get settled, Miss."

"Mrs. Hudson seemed to think I would not be here long. She instructed me to only pack for a week."

"Ah," said Watson. After a moment of thought, he said with a wry smile, "And perhaps she was right. I do not want you to stay any longer than you wish. And that increment of time shortens with Holmes' every appearance."

Sera opened her mouth to, much to her surprise, defend the man who had caused her employment. But she closed it again. _No sense in judging what one does not know. _

"Do not be mistaken," continued Watson. "Holmes is a dear friend, and the brightest of my peers. It's just that his methods leave something to be desired in the fields of morality, courtesy, and sometimes decency."

_And from the looks of it, safety and hygiene can be added to the list. _"You make an opposing duo," said Sera with some shyness.

The doctor returned her smile. "Perhaps so." He stopped at the door. "Just take today off, Miss Sera. It is only fair after so long a journey and so harrowing an induction."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Sera, nodding. Now she was alone. She sat on the bed for a moment, collecting her thoughts. She had taken two trains and three Hansoms all the way from the other side of England to get to Baker Street, and when she caught sight of her face in the vanity mirror across from her seat she could see it reflected. Her pine-green eyes had dark purple smudges under them, and her rose lips stood in stark contrast to her pale cheeks. All in all, though, she could have fared much worse. She might have gotten robbed, or accosted. She felt between her breasts for the skull knocker her brother had given her: a short metal rod lobed at both ends and wrapped in leather with a hand strap. She took it out and set it on her nightstand, then set about to unpacking the carpetbag.

After hauling the thing all over creation, and to more than a handful of countries during her various jobs, it felt like it should have held more. She took out the two dresses she had. The first was her finest with embroidery, ruffles, bows and lace in moss green. The second was her work dress, black and with a white apron. A few undergarments were thrown into the top drawer of the askew dresser, and all that was left was her jars. She found a small messenger desk tucked in the corner, and opening it, she brushed aside stray stationery and envelopes exactly like the ones she had gotten over the past three weeks. Satisfied with the amount of space, she dipped her hand in the bag several times, pulling out jars of all sizes and shapes in various shades of brown, blue, green, and clear. After checking each stopper and label, she arranged them as they had been on her shelf at home. Browns, for cosmetic implements, in order of the Latin names of the most prominent herbal ingredient. Blue, for ailments, according to what they cured and then by potency. Green, which were all small and all seeds she intended to plant, alphabetically. Clear, the raw ingredients she used for her...concoctions.

Content that all was set right, she surveyed the room with her hands on her hips. Bed, dresser, vanity, desk, and chest at the foot of her bed. She decided to put what few valuables she had in a sock in her drawer, after noting the scratches around the keyhole of the chest's lock. In had been jimmied on more than one occasion, and Sera was fairly certain it had been Holmes. She hoped she could withstand the prying that was sure to come, according to Mrs. Hudson.

Her thoughts turned to her new job. In the long line of jobs she had possessed over her twenty three years, this was the tamest. She had two men (well, she hoped for two) to cook, clean, wash and mend for. Seeing as it was four o'clock according to Big Ben's gonging in the distance, cooking seemed most important. Although Watson had given her the rest of the day off, she imagined that setting a good impression superseded that. She decided to cook an easy pot pie that would smell up the house and, with luck lure the reluctant Holmes out of hermitage.

She found Watson reading in the parlor. "I'll be going to the market for a few things, now that it's stopped raining."

" Very well. Do be home by dark, London can get rough at night."

Sera agreed and set off.


	2. Stalking the Prey

Sera loved the atmosphere after a rainstorm. The earth was softer, and the sounds on it dampened. The pollen was settled, leaving the air wet and cool. She could even smell the moisture alongside the bakery's warm yeastiness as she passed it, the fish hawker's cucumber-y scent, and the flower purveyor's sweet roses. Everyone was reemerging from their hideaways and by the time Sera had reached the heart of the market, home to the produce farmers, the streets were full again.

Although it took very little time to fill her basket with new, red potatoes, carrots, and other root vegetables, Sera lingered and chatted with the farmers, getting to know the people with whom she would have dealings nearly every day. Experience taught her that the more familiar farmers were with her, the better the deals she got and the more interesting the information.

"Beans on special today, ma'am."

"Great price on turnips, lady."

"Hey, gorgeous! This fish is for you!" (This one made her blush, but she took the brown paper from the stack beside her and caught the large red snapper with a broad grin.)

She was just dinging out of the door of the butcher's shop with what felt like half a cow in her basket when she realized it was getting dark fast. She remembered her promise to Watson and walked quicker.

The people were disappearing again, this time into pubs that spilled quick music and laughter. The lamplighter nodded to Sera as she passed.

She was at least a mile from 221 Baker when she heard footsteps step out of an alley behind her. There was a moment of fear, but she pushed it away. It returned when the footsteps multiplied to three.

There were no more places to duck into, no shops that were open this time of night. Sera, keeping her head as best she could, knelt to pretend to look through her basket. The footsteps stopped. She looked up.

The trio was obviously coal workers, streaked with dust and in patchwork overalls. Sera's heart leapt in panic when she took in their leery grins.

"Right purty one, eh George?" asked one. Sera could smell the beer on their breath from a pace away.

"Smells nice, too," added another.

"Cute backside, from the walk." They shared a laugh that gave Sera enough time to get back to her feet, feeling between her breasts for the skull knocker. It was still on her nightstand. She swore to herself as they advanced. Then...

Her mind stilled. The blokes seemed to move in slow motion. She could see the moves she would make, the moves they would make, and the damage she would inflict. _Right hook to jaw, loosen three teeth, hairpin to neck, puncture minor artery, bleedout time ten minutes without pressure. Stomp to foot, break four toes and two foot bones, recovery four months. Kick to knee, dislocate patella, recovery seven months. In summary, all three indisposed and unable to pursue. _

The first one reached out, grasping her forearm, and Sera twisted away against his thumb to break the hold. Sera growled, "Stay away!" He frowned and snapped his fingers.

_No use calling for help. No one out this time of night._

The first took one step and closed the distance between the parties, stepping into Sera's right hook. She felt savage pleasure at the teeth giving way under her blow. As he staggered a little ways, she followed up the attack by pulling a hairpin from her tresses, threading it into her fist, and stabbing his neck. He howled and reeled away. _So easy! They are quite drunk and stupid._

The second one needed two steps to close the distance, but was able to bear hug Sera from behind. She shouted and scraped her sharp boot heel down his shin, ending with a stomp that produced a wince-worthy _crack! _He too staggered a pace, clutching his foot and losing his balance.

The last one roared and ran at her. Sera ducked one punch and kicked his knee from the side with a wince-worthy _crack_. He fell with a yell of pain.

Now they were looking at her strangely, confused like bears realizing that a little honeybee stung when attacked. She left them on the ground, moaning.

Heart hammering and limbs shaking, Sera retrieved her basket, which had somehow spilled on the cobblestones during the fight. She saw her scratched knuckles bleeding, and guessed that because they were so dry from travel they had split open when she punched. She hustled off, jittery with nerves, and later could not recall how she made it to 221 Baker.

**(two hours before)**

Holmes heard the front door open and close. The bow stopped sawing the string of the violin in mid-note, and he tossed it aside, dashing to the window. Sera Dubois was striding down the street, basket in tow.

"To the market, no doubt," Holmes said to himself. Gladstone, the dog, twitched in his opium-induced stupor as if to respond.

Holmes crossed the room to one of his many work tables and grabbed the nearest hat, a newsboy cap made of scratchy gray wool. He shrugged into a jacket (which may or may not have been Watson's at some point), and opened the paint-peeled window just in time to see Sera round the corner. Gladstone sat up, shaking off the remains of the drug like water from his fur, and accepted the salute of Sherlock with a questioning whine. At the moment Holmes swung over the sill, Watson knocked and entered the room. "Now what are you doing?"

"Never fear," replied Holmes in a chipper Scottish brogue. "I'll be back before you can cackle, mother hen." And with that he slid down the drainpipe and ducked into one of the many dirty alleys of London


	3. An Eventful Dinner

Being a man of much brains, questionable patience, and exquisite boredom, the detective was always looking for new things to entertain his intellect and tickle his interest. Sera Dubois would be a welcome distraction from his lack of cases, a distraction he would pursue just for the hell of it. He needed no reason other than he was bored and easily excitable.

Holmes walked lazily, never attracting attention, through crowded streets, following Sera's winding path through the market. A time or two she happened to glance his way, but he escaped her notice cleanly as he had much practice in tailing. Along the way, he added to his disguise. He stole an apple and kept walking, finishing it and replacing a stray flour sack with the core. This he put over his shoulder,conveniently hiding is face and, moments later, shrugged it off beside the bakery Sera had just passed, trading his newsboy cap for another hat off a sleeping bum without faltering stride. The bum never broke rhythm in his snores.

Along the way, he made observations about the new housekeeper. _Strong walk, athletic grace, good core muscles: she worked as a dancer at some point. Right-handed, wiry forearms with prominent veining: she has experience as a laborer. Lustrous hair...wait, what? _Holmes shook his head. Lustrous? He frowned and continued his train of thought. _Lustrous hair, more than the norm: she ate predominantly fish in her previous area of residence._ The latter deduction he could set aside, but the former two were delightfully puzzling. _A labor-acquainted ex-dancer working as a housemaid? Strange..._

The farmers and fishers and bakers and butchers all took a healthy shining to Sera. They seemed grateful to have someone who knew quality and would appreciate it. Holmes' ice chip eyes watched from under a bowler hat as she charmed the fishermen into a tidy discount for the red snapper he had tossed her. _Wiley, she is. Mental note._

He stalked her from a distance, and sometimes circled in front of her so that she passed him without notice. His change in appearance was so marked from minute to minute that her eyes floated right over him.

Soon, it became harder for Holmes to blend, as people leaked away into the taverns and houses for the night. He watched Sera exit the butcher's, slightly off balance from the load. _There is at least forty pounds in that basket. VERY strong woman._

She walked faster, sensing dark falling fast, and he stuck to shadows a ways off. A man started to follow her, soon joined by two others. Holmes could tell by the straightness of her spine that she was aware of their presence, and afraid. Holmes wondered if she would try to flee, or stand and fight. He decided that if worst came to worst, he would have to throw off his disguise and fend them off her. Though she was mere fodder for his mind, he did not want to see her hurt. All the same, he had his money on the flee option.

When she slugged the first attacker with enough force to send him reeling, and followed up with a clever use of her hair pin, Holmes was taken aback. When she broke the second's foot and dislocated the third's knee, he corrected his feeling to impressed. No woman (save for The Woman) he knew could dispose of three thugs, simultaneously, without receiving injury in turn. They may have been drunk, true, but they were all burly and mean. She picked up her basket and trotted off, glancing over her shoulder, as Holmes wandered through alleys parallel to her, like a shadowy guardian. Once she was safely inside, he shimmied up the drainpipe again and into his quarters. He shed his disguise quickly, mind whirring. Chin to violin, he set about to deciphering this new-found quarry, this woman who obviously had much she was not forthcoming about.

An hour and a half later, the smell of pot pie finally won Holmes' attention. The bow hesitated on the strings, just for a moment, and the detective pulled a deep breath. He opened his eyes, which had been shut to aid his mental faculties, and drew another inhalation through his nose with an unwarranted, appreciative groan. He snapped upright in his chair. "No," he told himself sternly. "Not even the most winning mix of spices and foodstuffs can break my concentration. I refuse to be had by my own stomach." With that, he went back to sawing at the violin like a man possessed.

Halfway through a composition of his own writing, Holmes' sensitive nose picked up another scent. Even as his mouth watered, he cursed mildly. Chocolate! Ooh, of all the low-blow weapons...! Homes looked down at his flat stomach, which complained loudly of emptiness with enough vehemence to cause a shiver under his shirt. Breakfast the previous day, that had been his last meal. The religion of the mind that he ascribed to demanded much sacrifice and penance, chiefly among them occasional starvation.

Frowning at the offending body part, he looked to the side table at his leather-bound case of syringe and 7% cocaine. Should he dose up now? His stomach shouted again.

To hell with his declaration that he would not eat dinner. The food smells coming from downstairs would surely be more rewarding than the needle. "Alright, you've won!" he said exasperatedly at his stomach. He flung the violin into his chair and strode across the messy room, weaving around piles of old newspapers and oddities.

The scents of heaven lured him down the stairs without conscious thought. He found himself standing at the entrance to the kitchen, unable to remember his last steps. His eyes drifted shut again, and he stuck his head around the doorframe to indulge his nose again. When his eyes opened, an aproned, ample bosom greeted him, and when he followed it up to its owner's face, he was given a raised eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes," Sera said, inclining her head to him with a pleasantly surprised expression. "If you will please choose a wine, we can eat." She swept past him, oven mitts bearing the source of temptation: a pot pie with a flaky, decoratively scored crust.

At the table, Watson said a simple, customary grace and Sera served up the plates of steaming, juicy dinner. Holmes uncorked the bottle of Merlot, and poured three glasses of it. As was his habit, he sniffed the drink for negative additions before drinking. He'd already sniffed the food for poisons, well and good, but had no reason to believe that Sera would want to poison him so soon upon arrival. "Thank you for letting me dine with you, Mr. Watson," said Sera as the doctor pulled out her chair.

"Mrs. Hudson did too," assured Watson. When she was mentally prepared, he added silently, glancing at Holmes, who was eating like an etiquette-trained wolf. "We live in the same house, and it is only right to encourage the camaraderie therein."

"It is a welcome change in attitude from some previous beneficiaries of my cooking," she replied, smiling shyly.

Holmes quickly swallowed a burning mouthful, gulped a sip of wine, and broke in, "Yes, who were your previous employers?"

Sera's fork stopped midway to her lips. She hesitated a beat. "A family of power."

"Nobles? Royalty?" pressed Holmes.

"Erm...royalty, I suppose."

"You suppose?" tutted Holmes like a teacher chiding a student. "Surely you would know for certain if a family is of royal blood or not."

"Holmes," Watson warned. "Eat before it gets cold."

There was silence for a few moments, sprinkled with clinking forks and knives.

"Where do you hail from, Miss Sera?" questioned Watson, breaking the uncomfortable quiet.

"Scotland," she replied, looking relieved.

"That explains the accent," interjected Holmes over his wine glass. "Though it is muddled."

Watson shot him a glance that said, 'behave yourself!'

"I left there when I was sixteen," Sera said, slightly defensive but smiling like she was unbothered. "Your accent would be muddled, too, if you had not been among its speakers for seven years."

"It also explains your green eyes," continued the detective, warming to his monologue. "Scottish, for sure. But the shape of your nose suggests you have Spanish blood, as well."

Sera choked for a moment in surprise, putting down her fork. "My nose?" she asked breathlessly from behind her napkin.

"And your Catholic last name."

Sera met his eyes across the table, haughty at being picked apart by a stranger. After a moment, she said in a controlled tone, "You are correct on both accounts, Mr. Holmes. My mother was Scottish, and my father a Spaniard."

"But that does not explain why you left home so early," said Holmes, leaning his jaw on one hand, eyes scrutinizing.

Sera opened her mouth and closed it again, a vein twitching in her forehead.

"Bread, Holmes?" asked Watson pointedly, passing the basket. Holmes ignored it, steepling his fingers. "But I must say, there is also something decidedly Asian about you, Miss Sera."

"I...travel. A lot."

"Where, exactly?"

"My father married my mother and left her soon after I was born," said Sera silkily, ignoring the last question. "But my life is hardly dinnertime talk. How well does you practice go, Dr. Watson?"

"As well as can be expected," replied Watson hastily, off-tempo at being pulled into the conversation. "My clients are enough to see to it I live comfortably. I require no more."

"I imagine Holmes' boxing makes him a frequent patient," said Sera, stabbing a potato chunk.

Now it was Holmes' turn to choke slightly. "What makes you say I box?"

"Your physique," she said airily. "You really do need some fattening up, sir." She met his eyes with an 'I got you!' look. "Salad?" she asked sweetly, passing the bowl and tongs.

Holmes rolled his eyes at this, returning to his plate. "And Watson does not. His waistcoats already lose buttons when he bends."

Watson 'dropped' his fork, and upon retrieval poked Holmes hard in the leg with it. Holmes jumped, banging his knee under the table, nearly upsetting the wine glasses.

When they had finished, Sera got up and cleared their plates, telling them to stay put for dessert. She disappeared in a flash of black dress and white apron strings into the kitchen.

Watson took the opportunity to chastise his flatmate. "Don't be so prying!"

"Prying is how I pay my share of the rent, old boy," replied Holmes dismissively.

"_I _pay your share of the rent nine times out of ten!"

"With money that _I_ won for you boxing."

Watson struck Holmes in the knee with his cane under the table. Holmes glared at him, rubbing his kneecap.

Sera returned with three clean plates, forks, and a perfect chocolate souffle. Watson and Holmes murmured appreciation at the dish, to which she curtsied graciously and smiled. "I thought for sure it would fall."

"Like those thugs you beat off earlier this evening?" quipped Holmes with fake casualness.

The room suddenly turned frosty. Watson stiffened in his chair, and Holmes was compelled to pause his chewing to look across the table.

Sera's face was a potent mix of a viper's stare, a thundercloud's demeanor, and a hangman's grim mouth. She pinned him steadily, not breaking her gaze, and he stared back, expression blank.

"Mr. Holmes," she started coldly as the temperature in the room dropped to frigid. "If you are so curious about my life, perhaps you should wait until I am willing to disclose the details."

"The one whose knee you broke was the most impressive," continued Holmes, forking up some souffle. "Textbook, and quite effective. How long do you estimate his recovery time?"

Sera's face faltered, flitting to guilt. "Seven months," she said quietly. She broke his gaze. "I didn't want to hurt him. But it was either me or him go home injured tonight. I chose him."

Compulsively, she and Holmes reached for the serving spoon at the same time. Their hands brushed. Sera's eyes flared back to anger. "Why are you cross-examining me?" she snarled dangerously.

"Why are you hiding?" asked Holmes evenly, victory masked in his eyes.

Sera flung herself from the table, muttered something about cleaning up later, and exited the kitchen. The door to her room slammed moments later.

Watson sighed, rubbing his face. "Are you quite pleased with yourself, Holmes?"

The detective slid the souffle dish between them. "Very."


	4. Moonshine and Dreams

Sera slammed the door to her new room and threw herself on the bed. Clawing a pillow, she screamed into it, muffling the sound of her frustration. Then she stayed that way for a while, her breath hot and her heart filled with the furious passion of her Spanish father. _How dare he? _She thought. _Interrogation, and no sooner than I've set foot in the door, too!_

Laying there, she waited until the rage had abated before rising to a sitting position, unconsciously smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. "What are you doing here, girl?" she asked herself. The room, with its Spartan furniture and cold, moon-lit window, held no answer. Sera remembered something she had heard her mother say, so many years ago.

_"Grow where you're planted, child." The woman's arms encircled Sera, meeting in front of her with knitting needles clicking and flashing in the light of the hearth. The rocking chair under them creaked comfortingly._

_ "What does that mean, mam?" asked Sera, snuggling into her mother's bosom. Her heart thumped under her ear. _

_ "It means that, if you have a chance of happiness somewhere, stay there. And when you think that happiness is all used up, move on."_

_ "Have you moved on before, mam?"_

_ The knitting needles hesitated, then slowly returned to pace. "Once. But now I've been planted where my happiness will never run out. If you are ever so lucky, then stay at that place." _

_ "Never run out?"_

_ "Never, angel."_

Sera resurfaced from the memory with a single tear wetting her cheek. Now she wasn't angry, just sad. "I wish you were here, mam," she whispered to the empty room. She got off the bed, sniffled herself somewhat proper, and went to clean up the kitchen.

She walked straight to the sink and started the water running. Bracing her hands on the sink, head bowed, she let the steam from the spout damply caress her face. The moonlight painted the angles of her back and the strands of her hair silver, casting her shadow long on the shiny wood floor. She looked out of the four-pane glass, where the giant gray orb hung full and lonely in the sky over the neighbor's flat. "When you look at the moon, know that those you love gaze upon it, too," she quoted from her mother. And she immersed her hands in the hot water, heart adrift.

**(earlier that evening)**

The detective's quarters, as unorganized and haphazard as they were, remained the sweetest refuge to Holmes. The smell of pipe tobacco, old tea, chemical smoke and newsprint was the best aid in fostering mental activity Holmes had yet to discover. Holmes started a blaze in the fireplace of his room (choosing to ignore the perilously leaning stacks of paper nearby), and settled into the chair in front of his tinkering table with a sigh of contentment. The elephant pistol occupied his hands and brain for a time as he took the device apart, cleaned it, adjusted it, and put it back together. He would have gone somewhere private, like the docks on the Thames, to shoot it that night, but for some reason could not muster the will. Riding the tail of his cocaine high, which was fading with a whimper, made his eyes prick with sleeplessness and water in the light of the fireplace. "You have to sleep eventually, old cock," said Watson from the door.

Holmes looked over his shoulder, spine straightening in surprise. "I'm not sleepy, just...restful," he replied staunchly.

Watson entered the rest of the way, the door clicking shut. "Nightcap?"

Holmes nodded, so Watson poured them both a glass of whatever alcohol was in the opaque bottle on the side table, and handed one of them to his peer. With silent toasts raised, they exhaled simultaneously at the burn of the liquid as it slid down their throats.

"What is this?" asked Watson with a slightly worried tone, peering and sloshing the stuff in his glass. "Tell me I poured from the right bottle."

Holmes' eyes went wide, but the rest of his face remained a forced calm. He hefted the bottle, sniffed the contents. "Not to worry. The strength of the brew is intentional, and no more harmful than whiskey. I tried my hand at distillation. This is my very own brand of firewater."

Watson released the hold he had on his own throat, relieved. "Studying the chemistry?"

"Actually, I just like having a strong drink around. But I've run out of yeast, so for now, no more moonshine."

Watson chuckled.

After a few minutes' companionable silence, Watson spoke up. "You were rather a dandy at dinner," he said casually.

Holmes snorted into his glass. "If you think chastising me does any good, you would be wrong."

"I don't think such," replied the doctor, rolling his eyes. "I _know _trying to be your conscience is a losing battle. If I attempt it now, it is more out of habit. You're incorrigible, Holmes." He tipped his drink to the man sitting across from him.

"Then why bother at all?" asked Holmes, not unkindly.

"Well," started Watson, rubbing his mustache thoughtfully. "It suppose it is more for the sake of our new landlady."

"You give a whit about some flighty little thing that will not be here more than a fortnight?"

"It's just...!" stuttered the doctor, coastering his drink. "I think there is more to Miss Dubois than meets the eye."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow.

"Nothing sinister, mind you. Just a certain _je ne sais quoi _about her."

" 'I don't know what' about her? Watson, you are starting to sound like me," quipped Holmes. "Yes, she is interesting. Mostly because she is hiding her past."

"It's _her _past, old boy. And that means she will share it when we've earned her trust."

Holmes stabbed a finger at the ceiling. "Wait a moment! I think we've just made a valuable insight into the mind of a woman! Much like my observations about Miss Mary..." Holmes had to duck as the nearest book was flung at him. Primly rearranging himself after the flinch, he continued with sarcastic blitheness, "How go the wedding plans?"

"Swimmingly," replied Watson evenly. "Absolutely elysian in nature."

"Good."

"Fine."

"I'm so happy for you both."

"Shut up, Holmes. Just shut up."

An hour later Watson left, yawning his goodnight to Holmes, and the detective stared into space over his drink, consumed with his thoughts. Hearing water trickle through the pipes in the wall made him jerk awake, unaware of his descent into slumber until it was interrupted. The pipes in question were the ones running into the kitchen. Then, he heard a soft voice floating up through the burn- and acid-scarred floorboards. Curiosity reared in him, but try as he might to shake it off, he failed. He ghosted down the stairs, ears pricked.

Sera was in the kitchen again. That woman was already working harder than Mrs. Hudson ever had. It was nearly ten o'clock, and someone had blown out all the candles and oil lamps in the house, leaving it dark save for the moonlight that softly illuminated the rooms with windows. It was a magical time of evening, and Holmes felt for a moment like a child sneaking downstairs on Christmas morning, to see if his stocking was bulging on the mantle.

Again, that voice persuaded him to relinquish his attention. He followed it.

There she stood among the wraiths of steam that twisted like phantoms in the light of the queen of the night. Sera swayed as she sang, softly and melodically. It sounded like a dirge, as lonely and aching as orbiting luna. What few words Holmes could make out were Scottish Gaelic, lilting and lovely. The strains made him forget to question their meaning, welcoming him into their ancient embrace.

He stayed there, hidden behind the door's edge, until she stopped. His heart tugged, wishing again for that still, wondrous place it had been. The water from the bucket was emptied out the back door. Holmes jerked out of the trance, wondering if he had fallen asleep leaning against the wall, and scampered back up the stairs before she saw him. When he finally crawled under the covers that night, his dreams were dominated by soft light, swaying hips, and a lilting Gaelic love song that, somehow, he knew was sang for him. The face of the woman who sang it, though, always escaped his sight.


	5. Stretch and Catch

Sera had slept soundly and awakened early. Sitting at her new, unfamiliar vanity, she brushed her hair until it was shiny, tying it back securely in a bun under her maid's cap. After bowing her apron strings, she threw together a batch of scones with strawberries from yesterday's market. She was just sliding them into the primed coal oven when her calf started to ache.

She frowned, testing the limb, and was rewarded with a stab of pain. Quickly, she backed off and leaned against the countertop, flexing her foot and wincing. It was an old injury, a phantom pain from when she had made her career-ending stumble on the stage many years ago.

With a bracing inhale, she adopted a pile`, pointed the toes of the offending leg, and with a grand fan-like kick thumped her heel on the top of the china cupboard. The furniture went to her shoulder (no problem for the lingering flexibility of one of her past professions), and the dishes within rattled slightly, but the relief was immediate. Sera groaned with relief as the seizing muscle released, and gently folded her hands over her knee, elbows draped over her now-taut skirt, leaning over the extended leg to deepen the stretch.

She nearly lost her balance when a hand clamped over her ankle. The jump and preceding yelp of surprise made her heart stutter. Or perhaps it was Holmes' scrutinizing eyes.

"What have we here?" he asked, barely betraying his amusement.

"Oh, Detective! You startled me!" Sera blushed as she realized her position, and even more so when she tried to drop the leg, but was prevented by Holmes' grip. Her dress was starting to slide down her leg, but Holmes seemed content to watch it go. "There is only one dance that requires such flexibility and range of motion, along with lingering muscle injury," stated Holmes lazily. The dress glided past her knee. He leaned in closer, eyes alight with contained mirth. "The sordid kicks of the can-can."

Sera's eyes went wide and she spluttered senselessly. "But I...you!...how?..."

Holmes chuckled, victorious. He slowly withdrew his hand from the smooth, feminine ankle. "Such a tawdry dance for so reserved a lady."

Sera's face was furious as she placed the freed foot on the floor. The red remained high in her cheeks as she fished for a comeback, or an explanation. Her brain, usually so swift to return embarrassment, was astonishingly blank.

"To think, a dancer masquerading as a housemaid. What else do you have up your sleeve. Or, should I say, up your skirt?"

Sera balked.

"Yes, this was quite _revealing_ about your oh-so-secret past_,_" continued Holmes, wagging a finger. Sera longed viciously to break said finger. He sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving her gaping like a fish and angry fit to be tied_.  
_

A half hour later, Watson and Sherlock heard a knock at the door of Sherlock's room, where they sat discussing nerve sensitivity in relation to temperature.

"Come in," said Sherlock, hiding his smug smile as he saw Sera. He took his pipe out of his mouth as she curtsied.

"Will you be taking high tea, sirs?" she asked, the picture of servanthood.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Sera," replied Watson, reaching to the side table to exchange the heavy medical tome in his hands for another.

Sera curtsied again and left.

Watson stared at Holmes, who was watching Sera leave with a cat-that-caught-the-canary expression over his pipe.

"What is that look for?" asked Watson warily.

Sherlock's eyes slid over to his friend. "We agree there is more to her than meets the eye, correct?"

"Yes," conceded the doctor, puzzled.

"Well, I have discovered a small bit of that mystery. Apparently, Miss Sera is an ex-dancer."

Watson closed the book, brows furrowed. "You don't say."

"I suspected first by the observation of her walk, she has excellent posture. It was confirmed less than an hour ago by a sultry little run-in at the china cabinet."

"I don't suppose you are going to elaborate on the sultry part of said run-in?"

"Nay, old chap. I will spare you and take the brunt of her sordid past for the two of us."

Watson snorted. "Such sacrifice. I am honored."

"Little facts make for huge revelations, Watson. I wonder what more there is to be revealed about our new landlady."

"You are making a mountain out of a molehill," sighed Watson. "I agree that her reluctance to tell us more about herself is stymieing, but it does not merit such dogged pursuit. I highly doubt anything you uncover will be worth the effort."

"Says you, the doctor whose wit is ever-sharpened by a stream of hypochondriac patients."

"Good point. But Holmes, don't take this too far. It is such a task to find good landladies."

Holmes sighed a cloud of smoke and murmured, "Yes. Good help is so hard to find..."

"Actually, I mean landladies that will put up with you."

"There, see? Your sense of humor bursts forth unbidden due to patients that..."

He trailed off as Sera backed through the door, a large tray balanced in her hands, and began to carefully navigate the winding trail carved in the mess. She was but a step from Holmes when she tripped on the head his tiger skin rug. She gasped, off balance, but her heart-stopping topple was halted by a strong pair of hands. Sera opened her eyes, and realized Holmes had caught her. Her shoulders were tense with the effort of holding the tray steady, and his large hands easily spanned them. Her fingers had slid across the underside of the tray, and now prodded his stomach. She had to notice it was a muscled stomach, tight and rippled with his boxing.

"Careful," he said: more like whispered.

"Th-thank you," she murmured, with a similar tone. She made the mistake of glancing up to his eyes, which frightened her with their familiarity and...something else.

She served the tea and left as quickly as she could, not daring to meet the eyes of the one who caught her.


	6. Light Bulb Moment

Sera leaned against a kitchen counter, a large bowl hugged in one hand and a whisk in the other. Making the pudding was a mindless task, for which she was grateful. Her mind was far, far away.

_What is his game? _The thought chased itself around in her head. He was teasing her, toying with her, tormenting her. But why? Why did she draw such attention from him? He was her tenant, and she was just his landlady. _Well, _she corrected, _far from just a landlady. _Recalling her past endeavors, the danger, stress, and hard work she had faced, gave her a renewed sense of self-confidence. A smile grew on her face, lighting up her eyes. All of a sudden, she was empowered with the feeling that she could take anything Holmes could dish out.

With a "Hmph!" of affirmation, she plunked the bowl down and pulled the pastry shells out of the oven. As if she had dealt him a personal blow, she attacked the pudding with a spoon. "Take that, Holmes!" she said softly. The pudding plopped into the pastry shell with more force than necessary, splitting it. "Oh, bugger!" she mumbled. Scooping it off the tray, she set it hastily on a stray plate. Still basking in her personal revelation, she forked a large amount into her mouth, chewing as though the act itself was a win. Closing her eyes, she daintily wiped the crumbs from her lips, sighing with pleasure, and licked the tendril of pudding from her fingertip. "For a woman used to putting rice and green tea with every meal, this is phenomenal." Eyes still closed at the delicious taste, she lifted her fork in toast. "Here's to me: six months without getting killed by ninjas, a great paying job, and a little chocolate every day. Cheers."

When she opened her eyes, Watson was standing in the kitchen doorframe, looking at her with bemusement and curiosity. "Ninjas? As in the assassins from Japan?"

Sera's face blanched. Her victorious spirit fled her. She put down the plate and quickly busied herself with filling the rest of the pastry shells. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"Miss Sera," Watson said, in a tone used to commanding soldiers. Sera stiffened, freezing. "No more evasion. Are you in trouble?"

Heartfelt gratitude welled up in Sera. Knowing that she kept secrets from him, Watson was only concerned about her safety. _He is so sweet. _"You will make Mary a fine husband," she said quietly without turning around.

Watson stood there until he realized that was all she would say. With a final concerned look at her black-clad and apron-crossed back, he retrieved the two glasses he had come for and walked out of the kitchen.

Holmes was upstairs atop the rolling ladder that tipped against the bookshelves, running one long finger along the volumes' Roman numerals. "Did you get the glasses?" he asked, propelling himself further along. Silence met his query. "Something wrong?" he asked upon seeing Watson's frown.

Watson sighed, sinking into an armchair and propping up his cane on the side. "I think something _is _wrong."

Holmes slid down the ladder with just his hands, his boots thumping to the floor. He strode over to Watson, and sat down in the chair opposite. "What is it, old chap?" he asked, worry creasing his face at the sight of Watson's disturbed state.

"You were right about Sera. I think...I think there is more to her than meets the eye."

"What happened? Tell me," insisted Holmes. "I do so love having my suspicions proved right."

_Oh no, oh no, oh no, _chanted Sera in her mind. The frantic state of her thoughts translated to slopped soup and burnt bread. She swore at the blackened loaves and tossed them outside for the birds.

_What is he telling Holmes right now? Has this jeopardized my job? I haven't anywhere else to go if they fire me! _She closed and locked the back door, heart sinking.

_Perhaps not. They would not be able __to find another landlady that could tolerate Holmes like I do. _This brought her some measure of peace, but not enough to calm the storm inside her.

_Speaking of Holmes, why is he sniffing in my business so much? At the table that night, at the china cupboard this morning... _She blushed as she remembered his inquisitive eyes. _And what was that look he was giving me when I fell? Ugh, he's so irksome! Why can't he leave my past uncovered? _She stopped dead in her tracks. Like lightening striking, she knew. It was so incredibly, blatantly, painfully obvious. Discovery lit up her features. "Of course! It's _because_ it's a mystery! The good detective is treating me like a case!"

This understanding brought a measure of trepidation to her. "He won't stop," she concluded resignedly. "He won't stop until he knows everything about me."

Pacing restlessly, she muttered to herself. "First off, this talking to yourself is possibly the first sign of insanity," she began, chastising herself. "But, seeing as it helps more than harms, it is worth the lunacy. So long as no one hears it. No one else, that is. Watson is probably cutting my final check right now." She rubbed her forehead. A headache was starting up. "Relax, Sera, just take your herbs and get over it. Moving on," she coached herself. "Secondly, Holmes is not going to stop prodding his nose where it does not belong until he it satisfied. Maybe..." She stopped again, propping up against the pantry door. An idea that may have been the second stage of insanity setting in popped into her head. She said it aloud, testing it. "Maybe it is time to let him in on some clues. Maybe I should take control of this little game he is playing, and play it by my rules, not his." A smile that was partly wicked and partly raving spread across her face. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun," she murmured. "Look out, Holmes. You're in my house now."


	7. Author's Note  Kepouros Speaks!

Hello fellow bibliomaniacs! So far, you guys have been awesome. This story is far from over, albeit a bit slow. I do apologize for the lazy updates, but I have two jobs to work. I would prefer to be just an author, not a starving one. : )

I know the chapters are short, but it is more of a personal preference. I like to read stories of less than 5,000 words, simply because I don't have a lot of patience. Also, I like to type the individual chapters all in one sitting, so they wind up being small. The best things come in small packages, after all.

If you have any questions about the book, leave them as a review. I would love to hear from you. Also, I am open to any constructive criticism. But be gentle! This may not be my first writing experience, but it is my first fanfiction.

Thank you for the reviews. I literally run off of them. They feed my SOUL, ya know? And the soul is where all writing spouts, is it not?

Just you wait until I can be a beta! It'll be on like Donkey Kong from there, I tell you!

Kepouros

PS: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the other characters, save for Lyra. If I owned Holmes, I could take over the world with sheer literary AWESOMENESS.


	8. Cloves and Partial Accusations

Watson was in his office lancing a boil under a gentleman's arm when there came a polite knock at the door. The doctor and the patient, who was a long-time client and whose name was Mr. Fletcher, an Irishman of good standing, were behind a curtain for just such occurrences, so he called, "Enter." The distraction was just enough for the man on his table to barely notice the scalpel puncturing the boil. Mr. Fletcher sighed as the pain subsided. "Much be'er, doc."

"Dr. Watson? I hope I am not interrupting..." said Sera from behind the curtain.

"No, I'm just finishing up here," he replied, reaching for gauze to catch the nasty liquid draining from the abscess.

"I am going to the market again, but not before I pick up a few essentials from...a store across the river."

"Across the river? Not alone, surely," said Watson. He muttered, "Hold this," to the patient, who took over the gauze pad, and stepped from behind the curtain, hands raised so as not to touch anything unsanitary. "I have patients all the way to three this afternoon, but then I am free to escort you."

Sera laughed. "You are kind, doctor, but this is London. Surely it is not half so dangerous as you think! I can take care of myself."

"Doctor, I'm flowing like the Loch," muttered Fletcher.

"Right, here you go," said Watson, hurrying to continue the treatment. "After what happened last time," he reminded Sera, "I don't think that is wise..."

"Besides," she interrupted. "Even if we set off at three, we would not have enough time to make all the errands, as the apothecary closes at five and the market at six."

Watson frowned. "Well, I hate to speak for someone else, but perhaps you should ask if Holmes would accompany you."

Sera brightened. "Marvelous idea! Excuse me for bothering you, Doctor. And I apologize, good sir," she said, raising her voice to be heard by the patient.

"Miss Dubois?" asked the patient, peering around Watson.

Sera squinted, then her eyes widened. "Fletcher?" Neither seemed to care much that the patient was shirtless and draining a boil.

The man beamed at her and burst out, "Sera, ye wee lass! Ah, not so wee an'more, eh? A right bonnie thing you've grown into."

Sera strode forward, equally pleased but clearly surprised. "I haven't seen you in seven years!"

"Aye, s'been too long," said Fletcher. He shifted a little. "I'd throw an arm around you, missy, but both are busy."

"Oh! Sorry!" Sera darted back out of sight. "I must go, Fletch, but do look me up another time you're in town."

"Count on it, lass!" he called to her as she disappeared from the room.

Watson had watched the exchange with curiosity. "I assume you know her from her childhood?" he asked tentatively as he applied as ointment to the wound.

"Aye, and a more intelligent lass is ne'er to be found..." he stopped suddenly then, and seemed to sadden and deflate a bit.

"Bad memories?"

The Scot sighed, rubbing his face with his free hand. "No' the best, doc. She's a tragic tale, sure."

Watson did not know how to press the matter, so he kept silent as he bandaged the wound.

"She di'not tell you?" asked Fletcher, a bit surprised.

"She's only been under our employ for a few days. But she has been a bit secretive as to her past," replied Watson.

Fletcher seemed to consider for a moment. "I's no' my place to tell. I'm sure she has her reasons. Best ask her."

"Maybe I will," murmured Watson to himself.

* * *

Sera had never actually agreed to Watson's proposal of an escort, be it him or Holmes: she'd only said it was a marvelous idea. She firmly believed she could manage the errands by herself, thank you very much, and perhaps would be better off as such. The items she needed to purchase from the apothecary were of a sensitive nature, especially in the modern public eye. So, she decided she would slip past them both and be gone and back before they knew it.

She swung open the door to her room, intending to gather her purse and a lady's shawl, and gasped back a shriek at Holmes, who was standing at her shelf of herbs with a surprised expression. The blue jar he was holding slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor, shattering and spilling cloves from one corner to the other. The room was frozen for a long moment, but she was not shocked to see him snooping and as much could be seen on her face. She shook her head. Sucking in a breath to calm her irritation, she ground out, "I was going to use those this very night."

"Cloves? Aren't they for witch's love spells?" he asked lazily, undeterred at being discovered in the act of nosing around in her personal belongings.

Sera was dumbstruck with fury again: a pitiable affliction.

He took her silence as acquiescence. "Now, that's a faux pas," he smirked.

"They are used in Asian countries for dental emergencies and to drive out colds," she retorted, flinging up her chin. "Nothing magical or romantic there."

"Aren't they strung on a necklace and worn to attract unsuspecting bachelors? Or perhaps picked naked by the full moon and blessed over a black candle," he continued, cheered at drawing her out so quickly.

"They're _expensive_!" she emphasized. "And what are you getting at? All this talk of witchcraft and such!"

He jabbed a thumb at her shelf of herbs. "Are you confessing?"

Sera drew herself taller and put her hands on her hips. "Are you accusing?"

Holmes marveled at how rapidly the tables had turned. He had her on the defensive, and it was he who had broken into her room!

She glared at him and he taunted her right back with a smile. As he'd expected of one so mature, she crushed her anger. "I need your help."

That, however, had not been expected. "Whatever for?" he asked, hands to his hips.

"The good doctor, bless him, does not want me wandering the streets alone in midday." She gave a smile that was partly at Watson's concern and partly at herself. "Especially after last time."

Holmes flashed a small smile of his own at the memory of her dispatching the three thugs. "You could manage."

"Oh yes, but you owe me four ounces of Indian cloves," she replied silkily. "You're coming with me."


	9. A Series of Handoffs, A Certain Captain

Watching Sera weave stiff-backed through the light traffic on the streets was a cause for some smugness on the part of Holmes. Getting the landlady riled up was a source of great entertainment. He wondered idly how long it would take her to snap as Nanny - erm, Mrs. Hudson - had. He was wearing a white shirt and tattered coat, both slightly worse for wear. He wasn't going to reward her conniving ways: no, anything to make her wince (such as the wrinkled and stained clothes he currently wore and the ashes raked through his hair). He had never much cared about society's perception of fashion, anyway.

Holmes waited with all the patience of his profession as Sera jewed the vendors and then gifted each with a beaming smile and something from the folds of her shawl. If Holmes had been anyone else (as in, anyone less perceptive) he would have entirely missed the transactions. He strained his ears to pick up the few words she murmured to each of the four recipients.

"For your wife. Oh, a little girl, was it? This will help her milk production."

"Soak your gout with a pinch of this and hot water. It will help."

"As I promised, something for that snuffed up nose."

"This is for that cut. And just in time, too."

This puzzled Holmes most thrillingly. He could never catch more than a glimpse of the vials and small paper packets, as Sera had glared him to a distance so as to keep the hand-offs more private. She often left him standing in the middle of the street like a light pole while she motioned the recipients of her packages deeper into the shadows of their booths. He still owed her for the cloves, and that kept him from simply walking away.

"Sera, dear," sang Holmes in a opera baritone as he hovered at her shoulder. She was perusing the squash with more care than seemed necessary, and he leaned facing outward against the table. (They were _vegetables, _for heaven's sake. What more need she know?) "What are you giving the merchants?"

She tapped his nose with a long, thin zucchini. "Come now, detective. I am fairly certain you have ascertained the nature of my herbs and such, and why I am in such good standing with the vendors."

"Oh, I have," assured Holmes. He leaned closer, keeping his gaze on the crowd. "But it is much more fun to procure a confession than revel in my own genius."

Sera snorted, handing a few coins to squash man, and looked around exaggeratedly. "What genius? I don't see him anywhere."

"Your humor needs adjusting," Holmes sniffed.

"So does your ego," she replied without missing a beat. She was three steps away by the time he followed.

"That is all the ingredients. Where is this place I get to spend my money?" asked Holmes, catching up with his hands in his pockets.

"How do you know that is all the ingredients?"

"You are making ratatouille. There is only so much you can fit in a pie crust."

Sera laughed. "Indeed, great detective. The next place will be our final destination. We'll have to cross the river."

"It is some way to the nearest bridge," commented Holmes.

"It doesn't sit right with me to hire a cab for a few miles' walk. Besides, it's a beautiful day."

"I don't object to the walking, but may I suggest an alternate route?"

Sera stopped to study his face. "I'm listening."

"I have a good friend I would like you to meet..."

* * *

Sera's peals of laughter were echoed drunkenly by Captain Tanner. For all his inebriation, the wizened old coot kept the lady in stitches with his jokes, observations, and slight lechery. He had just finished singing a song punctuated by hiccups, about a nude mermaid who seduced a sailor. In detail.

By the time Tanner was on the second verse, Sera was joining in.

Holmes, on the other hand, was not as amused. His arms ached from shoveling coal into the belly of the tug boat, and the dust from the black lumps mixed with his sweat to coat his face and forearms. He hadn't thought that part of the plan through: Tanner had to steer, and Sera was a lady, so that left feeding the engine to him.

"This was a fantastic idea, Holmes!" called Sera from the wheel, where Tanner was letting her try steering the boat.

"Aye, 'twas, sah!" shouted Tanner, tipping back his ever-present bottle. He passed it to Sera, who swigged and exhaled appreciatively. Her cheeks went rosy.

The swells raised up them no more than a foot at a time, but to Holmes, the bouncing at the back of the boat was disconcerting. Though he had never been seasick before, there was a first time for everything. He blamed it on being the one laboring on the unsteady end of the boat. He was feeling nauseous by the time they finally slid into dock.

Sera turned to the captain, wrapping one arm around his slightly stooped shoulders. "You know, captain," she said coyly. "You are quite the gentleman. We shall have to do this again some time."

Tanner chuckled. "Yez, anytime you can find me, my ship is yours." He belched.

If Holmes hadn't been feeling nauseous before, he was ready to vomit now.

After pecking a kiss on the man's bearded cheek, Sera clambered onto the dock before anyone had the chance to help her, and reached out a hand to help Holmes.

"Come now, Holmes! I cannot wait to show you this place." She braced herself as he pulled himself across the short distance between dock and boat.

Stifling a groan, the detective walked after her, waving over his shoulder to Tanner, who whistled as he backed the boat out of port and chugged away, singing merrily.


	10. Bhumika and Revelations

The bell welded above the door to the nondescript shop clanged cheerfully as Sera pushed it open. Holmes bit back a mutter at not being given the opportunity to open it for her, but he was not in the mood to try too hard in matters of chivalry. She seemed the type to stare dumbly at him, as if chivalry was a foreign thing.

The scent of the store hit Holmes like a brick wall. It was slightly dim inside, and it took his eyes some time to adjust. While they did, he picked mint, basil, some kind of musky smoke, and dried lavender out of the array of smells. Once he could see, he noticed it was a combination of cluttered and spacious. It seemed bigger on the inside than on the outside, but couldn't pick out why. One part neatly arranged, thick jars, and one part of flung-hither-and-thither dried plants. The plants hung everywhere: from the rafters, the corners of the door frames, the junctions of shelves, on racks designed for such, and carefully out of reach of all the candles whose flames writhed in the wake of the disturbed air. The smoke that gingerly hazed the air was from a rather thick bundle of more dried stuff being waved around by a hunched, Indian woman. She was tracing the same pattern with the smoke over and over, and did not stop or turn around when they entered.

Sera stood respectfully still, head bowed, eyes closed. Holmes would have snorted and walked to examine the shelf of jars, but was stopped by Sera putting a hand on his arm and shaking her head, a finger to her lips. So Holmes stood still too, not knowing why.

After a minute of turning in a slow circle on the spot, the Indian woman muttered a phrase that even Holmes' linguistically inclined brain could not place, and she extinguished the bundle in a small pot of water.

"Bhumika," greeted Sera. The gold edge of the woman's sari glittered slightly against the plain white of the traditional Indian dress. Holmes mentally congratulated himself at knowing.

"Seraphima," the old lady returned the greeting in a voice too young for her body and an accent too honeyed for her age. She scooted (as all old people so hunched seem to) closer and peered up at Holmes, who peered down at her. "Who this man? He is handsome."

At this, Sera nudged Holmes, nodding towards Bhumika. "Detective Sherlock Holmes, ma'am," said Holmes, bowing slightly and with a courteous smile.

Bhumika smiled back, her teeth white and straight, and replied, "Detective? Uh-oh, Sera..."

"Don't worry, he's not here in an official capacity, Mother," assured Sera.

"Oh." Bhumika gave an exaggerated wipe of her brow. It was meant to be a joke, and they both chuckled obediently. "Cloves on the back shelf, Seraphima. Would you like tea? My brother send."

Sera lit up. "Ceylon province?"

"Family tea farm. Third uncle. Best."

"I would love some," said Sera.

Throughout this whole conversation, Holmes had 1) marveled at the rate his heart had been reduced to upon crossing the threshold 2) wondered at the fact that Sera's real name was Seraphima and 3) that she had called Bhumika mother. The last two needed tending to, straight away.

As Bhumika toddled off behind a curtain for tea, Holmes glanced at Sera and said, "She can't really be your mother."

Sera ignored the chance to test his logic. "No, but I call her that. When I first set foot on English soil, this was the first place I ducked into. It just...happened. She likes it, I like it...it makes her think of her children back in India, and it makes me remember my true mother." She looked down. "Even when the actual title-bearer is dead, it helps to have someone carry the name."

Holmes felt his heart crack a tiny bit at that. Sera might be mule nosed, strange, and too quick in outsmarting him, but she was still human. "That's why you left Ireland." It was a statement.

She nodded, still downcast. "Yes," she whispered. "I couldn't stay after losing her. I couldn't bear it."

This made the crack a little wider. Without thinking it through, Holmes put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a lingering squeeze, and left her to collect herself.

He found the cloves by scent alone, filled one of the small burlap bags hanging nearby with a rough handful, and set it on the counter. "What was Bhumika doing with the smoke?"

He judged Sera's sadness as passed by the lack of waver in her voice when she said, "That bundle was called a smudge stick. She was renewing the protection on the building from demons and evil."

"Then how did you get in?" he quipped.

It took her a moment to catch it. She laughed in a no-you-just-did-not way. "How did _you_?"

"Maybe Bhumika should check her herbs," said Holmes solemnly.

"Pfft! That is one thing Mother is never wrong about."

Bhumika returned with a handle-less, small cup of tea for both of them. The earthenware seemed to fit just right in the palm of one hand. Sera took a sip of hers and smiled dreamily. "You always manage to get your hands on the best, Mother."

Holmes characteristically sniffed his for additives.

"No bad. Just tea," said Bhumika, unoffended but looking at him like he was a little off.

Sera muffled her snort of laughter in her cup. "Silly," she said, as though adding on to the sentence.

"Naive," he muttered as Bhumika scooted off behind the curtain again. But the tea was too good to spare more words.

"Here's something you don't smell everyday," Sera said, striding across the room and opening a jar.

Holmes drifted closer and cautiously wafted the smell. "Cinnamon. Sri Lanka."

Her eyebrows went up. "The scent, I understand, but the country?"

"It's a gift," he replied modestly.

"Or you read the jar."

"I meant the gift of observation."

She smiled and shook her head. "What am I to do with you?"

He grinned impishly. "Do like Watson: just keep me in the attic. I'm well-trained, but I do bark at strangers."

She laughed so hard that Holmes had to join in. When it had died a bit and they had gratefully (and, on the part of Holmes, surprisingly genuinely) bid farewell to Bhumika.

It was only then Holmes remembered something. "How did she know we needed cloves?"

Sera shrugged the bag of herbs higher on her shoulder. "Mother always knows. Maybe her gifts are keen like yours."

They were both silent as they walked for a while. "I have a question that is a bit more daring. Will you indulge me?" asked the detective.

She stopped and looked at him, wariness and curiosity warring in her eyes. "Very well."

"May I call you Seraphima?"

She was very still for a long moment. Then, a gentle, archaic smile melted her features. "Yes, you may. May I call you Sherlock?"

"Yes, you may." He proffered his arm and she laced herself to it, gentleman to lady. Home they walked.

* * *

**Yes, yes, a bit mushy. But, I hope, lovely all the same.**

**I have churned out three chapters in a week! YAY ME! I deserve a cookie, or at least a full meal...all this ON TOP OF working for my mother. Everyone say, "Ugh..."  
So now I am off to camp for a week. I hope this will tied you guys over until I get back (and out of my post-camp hibernation). **

**You know they don't let us have computers of cell phones at this camp? Sounds like they're thinking mass homicide or something! **

**Nah, not really. That would be awkward, with it being Jesus camp and all...  
**

**_I WANT TO SEE MY INBOX FULL OF REVIEWS BY THE TIME I GET BACK! EVEN IF IT'S ONE WORD, THROW A DOG A BONE!_**

**Ahem. Carry on, good readers. May the fanfiction be with you.**

**Kepouros  
**


	11. Resident Pervert and Sleep Candles

"Holmes! I swear...!" Sera bellowed as she stomped through the flat. "Come here this instant!"

Holmes ducked out of a door she had just passed and said innocently, "Yes, Satan?"

Sera turned livid eyes on him. "Why is my room broken into?" She had taken to locking the room whenever she left it, in deference to her predecessor's warnings.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, casually putting more of the door between them.

"There are lockpick marks around the keyhole. I assume you were drunk when you perpetrated this attempt on my sanity?"

"How do you know what lockpick marks look like?" he said, sliding under the accusations.

"Stop avoiding the question. None of your business," she shot back, throwing up her chin. "Why did you do it?"

"I do not 'perpetrate', I investigate. I was in search of suspicious substances. I have reason to believe you are drugging my tea and food." He regretted to mention that he had been drunk on the _previous_ occasion of picking the lock, when he had slipped a mouse into dear old Nanny's underclothes drawer.

Sera scoffed. "And what is your evidence?"

"I am sleeping too much, which cuts back my best pondering time drastically, and I find myself unable to focus." The latter part of the statement was a thinly avoided admittance that she was constantly invading his thoughts. It made him more than a little ill-tempered at her. He stepped from behind the door.

"Oh, boo-hoo, you can't play your violin before the rooster and you can't work on you elephant pistol. Do you have a hankie?"

"Madam, your subtle herbage in interfering with my work."

"Holmes, this is the world's smallest violin, and it's playing just for you." She rubbed two of her fingers together. "And this is the orchestra." She rubbed more fingers together.

His eyes narrowed. "See here, witch..."

"What is going on here?" asked Watson irritably, rounding the corner.

The two arguers pointed at each other simultaneously and said, "He/she started it!" What followed was a rabble of each trying to explain their point in increasingly louder voices.

"I don't care who started it, I'm finishing it!" yelled Watson. "Look at you two, acting like children! At the very least argue reasonably like adults."

The detective and the landlady looked somewhat shamed, but nonetheless sulky.

"I have a leeching scheduled in thirty minutes, and the patient must be calm and I must be undisturbed if the treatment is to be successful. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," replied Sera, sneaking a glare at Holmes.

"Transparently," agreed Holmes, glaring back. Once Watson had turned away, he mouthed, "This isn't over."

"No, indeed," Sera whispered back.

"I _know_ you're drugging me."

"I _know_ you're insane."

"Shall we settle this as mature individuals?"

"Yes, let's."

He gestured grandly but tightly for her to enter his room and shut the door behind her. She turned around, arms folded, looking more hurt now than mad.

"Sherlock, I thought we had put this sort of nonsense behind us. I am not a witch. I have no dealings with the devil-"

"Save for adopting his likeness on occasion."

"-and I am no different than Doctor Watson, though my methods for curing are more natural. You know I do not harm with my knowledge."

"Causing sleep is not harmful," he said, catching her loophole. "I just want to know if you're doing it."

"I am not putting anything foreign in your body. I promise." She turned sincere eyes to his face, looking like a kicked puppy. "I don't know why insomnia has fled you." Or why you would want it to begin with, she added silently. He is so weird!

"Speaking of foreign, I would like to take a moment to formally request a list of the places you have traveled. You aren't dropping nearly enough clues, and my patience wears thin."

She narrowed her eyes. "Never. It does not concern you, and it means little to me that your prying nature is unsatisfied." She was a little surprised at his forwardness, though.

"_Au contraire, mademoiselle_," he said. He stepped closer and leaned down a bit, his face a mere six inches from her own. "You see," he continued in the same voice, "It is driving me rather _insane_."

She had to agree, he looked haunted by the not knowing. His hair was streaked with ashes (the reason why escaped her), his eyes staring with a hint of desperation, and his lean boxer's body so close she could feel the heat from it. But she wasn't afraid of his proximity: in fact, she had a shaky feeling in her legs that was not fear, but something else. Like her heart had fallen through a hole in her stomach.

Sera had a hard time forming words around the excited beating of her heart. "My past is mine to share," she said, a hint of - that something - lacing her voice. She turned her head to the side, so she did not have to see his serious eyes, but then rematched them with her own bold, green ones. "You have to _earn_ my trust, for it is not easily given."

The minute they held their staring contest masqueraded as an hour. Finally, he stepped back. Sera let out the breath she had been holding. So soon, too soon the air between them was back to normal. Had that even happened?

"Well," sighed Holmes awkwardly, the last of his irk leaving him. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose my tactics were a bit uncalled for. I apologize for entering your room without your permission."

"And for smelling my nightclothes."

His eyes bugged out almost comically at that, in his trying-to-control-the-shock sort of way. He opened his mouth to ask how she knew.

She _tsked, _shook her head, and gave a sly smile. "Now now, resident pervert: I can't give away all my secrets, can I?" She strode to the door and paused to look over her shoulder. "You apologized," she said softly, with quiet wonder. "Thank you."

As the door clicked back, Holmes whispered unbidden, "You're welcome." And then he was left in his empty rooms to wonder what was wrong with him.

* * *

A couple of days later, Sera knocked on Holmes's door and asked him for a hammer and nails.

"Whatever for?" he asked.

"I found some scrap wood and I want to make a window box."

"And what makes you think I would have said items?"

"You have everything in this house that is not useful on a regular basis."

Holmes was inclined to nod. "Excuse the stench," he said, motioning her in.

"What stench?" She asked, hand to her nose.

"Ammonia. I am preserving a fetal pig."

"Disgusting!" She covered her eyes with both hands. "I don't want to see that. Just find the tools and I'll leave. Quickly," she added impatiently.

She heard him chuckle. "I am only joking. There is no pig, only this infernal smell that I cannot seem to get rid of, nor find the source of." He took one of her fingers laced tightly over her eyes and peeled it back gently. "See? Your weak constitution is safe."

She sniffed. "It actually smells nice in here, for once."

"Says the woman whose hobby is scented things. Albeit a secret hobby."

"Funny," she said sarcastically. "It smells like lavender and chamomile and..." she trailed off and her eyes got wide.

"Care to enlighten me?" Holmes asked archly.

"You're going to hate me for this," she fretted.

"If it's that good, you must tell me."

She pointed at the floor. "See that vent?"

"What about it?" asked Holmes, crouching beside the vent.

"It goes from my room to yours."

"So that means..."

"The candles I light to fragrance my room float to yours." She chewed her lip guiltily. "It also explains why you have been falling asleep so easily."

Holmes stared at the vent, then began to laugh. "You're telling me that a simple candle and some woman's perfume have been influencing my sleep habits?"

"Yes," Sera replied. "They are rather powerful, like anything I make. I'm so sorry! I won't burn the thing anymore."

"Seraphima," he sighed, straightening. She flinched at his use of her full name, more in surprise than anything else. "I am not angry," he continued. "Give me more credit than that."

"But in a way I _was _drugging you," she said.

"Hmm...yes, the unwitting alterations to my biological functions must cease, but all in all, no harm done," he assured. "If you try to repeat this, I will deny it fervently. I sort of enjoyed sleeping. Would you be willing to lend me one of those candles?"

A minute later she exited the room with the hammer and nails, wondering what was happening to Holmes to change him so much. First apologizing, and now wanting to sleep at normal hours? Preposterous!

Surely something was changing him. But what?

She dared to think it: did it have anything to do with her?


	12. The Properties of Eucalyptus

Sera woke up to the sound of rain pattering the window and the whoosh of blood in her ears. As she sat up in bed, she realized it was a mistake: her sinuses actually made her teeth ache. She couldn't breathe through her nose, either.

Valiantly, she tried to go about her morning as usual: she dressed in her uniform with less speed and more groans than normal, made her way to the kitchen, and set about making the morning biscuits. Then the sneezing started: full-bodied, hack-a-lung doozies that drew Holmes's and Watson's attention.

"Are you alright?" asked Watson, his hand on her shoulder tentatively.

She turned and said around her stuffy nose, "Yeth, 'm fibe, relly."

"That sounds nasty," said Holmes, crossing his arms. "Must be this chill rain."

"I'th allergeeth, 'm thure," Sera said weakly. She sneezed, blowing flour out of the bowl and onto the countertop in a spectacular display.

"Enough of that, Miss Dubois," said Watson in his no-arguing tone. "To bed with you."

"Bud, 'ow will you...?"

"Now, Seraphima," insisted Holmes quietly, steering her down the hall. "I think we can manage to care for ourselves until you get better."

She sniffled and allowed him to guide her to her room. Without taking off her clothes, she peeled back the covers and slid into bed. " 'm zorry, Therlock." She convulsed with the effort of another sneeze. "Dere's sandwich makings in the brea' boss and ize chesth..." Without finishing, her eyes closed and she was asleep.

Sera stayed that way for the rest of the day. Holmes knew: he poked his head in the door at least once an hour. Her breathing seemed to deepen, but every few minutes a croupy cough would sound and she would turn in her sleep. This worried him.

It also worried him that he was worried to begin with. Since when did he care about the wellbeing of the maid? _But she's not just a maid to you, is she? _taunted his mind.

The last time he checked on her, about five in the evening, he was surprised to see her wide yet puffy eyes staring back at him from over a mound of blanket.

"How do you feel?" he asked, stepping into the room.

She tried to answer him, but a horrible wet cough overtook her. She looked at him, resigned and pitiful.

"Surely you've got something in this array that will heal you," said Holmes, gesturing at the myriad of jars.

Sitting up slowly, Sera nodded and carefully swung out of the bed. Rubbing her aching knees, she stood and tottered to the desk, plopping down with exhaustion into its chair. With lethargic movements she began to gather a few jars. Trying to open the first one proved too much for her muscles, and she huffed at it. Another warm hand covered hers on the lid. "Here," said Holmes, twisting open the offender.

"Danks," she muttered. "Dis isth so irkthome." She took a deep, noisy inhale of the liquid contents, held her breath for a few seconds, and let it out explosively.

"What, getting ill? 'Tis a part of life, little witch." Holmes, fascinated, wafted the odor of the jar towards him and gave a cough.

"Da's it," she started, her voice sounding a little less thick. "I'm putting hot pepper flakes in your-" she was interrupted by a gut-busting hack.

"Where, exactly?" teased Holmes, opening the rest of the jars. He reached for the same jar she did at the same time, and they both jumped back. Sera managed to make it look like she was reaching for the jar's neighbor.

"Somewhere no fun," she promised darkly. "You shouldn't goad an herbalist, much less a sick one."

"Is that what they call it these days?" he asked archly.

"Ooh, you're a troublesome one," she creaked. "Remind me to give you one of my scented surprises when I regain my energy."

"What is that stuff? It is rather strong."

"Essential oil of the eucalyptus plant. It grows in Australia, and is very precious in the Kingdom." She tipped the bottle against her fingertip. "Hold still, this is interesting." She gently rubbed the wet fingertip into the hollow at the base of his throat. The texture of the scruff he had let grow sent strange electric bolts up her arm, but she steadfastly kept her face composed. "Wait for it..."

Holmes, equally thrilled by her touch yet just as composed, did as she bade. A tingle started in his skin and seemed to sink into his lungs and rise into his nasal passages. His chest heaved in a life-giving breath. "It works, for certain."

Sera had turned back to the mixture she was measuring, more to hide her blush than anything else. She narrated her procedure out of nervousness disguised as digression. "Echinacea for wellness, licorice for the cough and drainage, elderberries, lemon grass..." She started to pound the mix in the mortar, but the heavy stone pestle wore on her quickly.

Holmes' hand covered hers again. Sera allowed him to take it from her hands and straighten, placing it in a firm hug against his chest. His strong fingers began a rotating and crushing motion. "What kind of consistency am I aiming for?"

"Pebbles to coarse sand. Once you start to smell it, it's done," she said quietly, sitting back in the chair weakly. She was already tired again. "I need to make a tea from it. If it's not too much to ask, could you...?"

"Boil the water," he finished for her. "I will return shortly."

When he brought up the steaming kettle and a cup, she was nodding off again. He coached her through the brewing of the strongly medicinal-smelling tea, drinking three cups of it, and coaxed her back under the covers. She fell asleep entirely within seconds and he was pleased when she did not cough any more.

She was unconscious, for sure, and Holmes was left standing in her room. He saw her as strangely vulnerable in slumber, whereas in animation she was always on her toes, ready to respond with a witty comment or parry his verbal prods. Now, seeing her in such repose, he was strangely soothed. She was starting to let her guard down around him. He tucked the quilt around her a bit better, his hands lingering without his consent. Then, feeling suddenly like an intruder, he turned and hurriedly left. The door's last few inches gave him a final glimpse of the little witch - herbalist - who was dancing her way into his heart.

The eucalyptus still tingled on his skin and in his lungs, reminiscent of her gentle, electrifying touch.


	13. Author's Note 2

Hello fellow bibliomaniacs! In the words of Dr. Evil, "It's been a long time, but I'm back."

College is a bear, especially when you go straight from homeschooling to it. But, I am learning to manage my time better, so you will be seeing more chapters from me.

But anyway, how are you liking the story so far? Anything I need to change, or take into account in the future? TALK BACK TO ME! I LIKE IT!

As for you who favorite my stories and me, I thank you. Seeing your appreciation in my inbox makes my day. -%- Rose for you guys!

Have any of you ever heard the expression: Cold hands, warm heart, dirty feet and no sweetheart?

It's the ultimate wildflower catchphrase. My grandma taught it to me when I was little, and now, I pass it on to you. Each of the following four chapters will be titled after this saying.

I hope ya'll like it. I certainly will!

Kepouros


	14. Cold Hands

Holmes knocked on Sera's door one morning a couple of days later. "Come in," she sang from beyond it.

He did as bade and saw her standing in front of her mirror, fixing her hair under her maid's cap. She bright eyes met his in the reflection.

"Feeling better, I see," he said, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. _Pity: I did so enjoy..._he stopped himself before he completed that thought with..._taking care of you, _or perhaps with_ ...watching you sleep_. Yes, he was such a stalker.

"Yes, very much so," she replied, securing a final pin and turning to look at him. "But then, I had an excellent nurse." She was none the wiser to the devil whispering unfamiliar (and therefore frightening) words in his ear.

Sherlock snorted, shrugging. "It was either help you get better quickly, or learn to subsist on crumbs and jerky."

She laughed. "So you missed my cooking, huh? That's reason enough to keep me around, I suppose."

_There are other reasons, _assured the devil. _Hearing you laugh and sing, and when you sigh in your sleep, and that perky bosom... _Holmes gave himself a mental slap. On both cheeks. _Steady, sailor, _he cautioned himself. He was going to burn in hell, he knew.

"I'm surprised Watson did not visit me. Was he busy these past couple of days?"

"Yes," lied Holmes. "Back-to-back patients, and in the case of the Siamese twins from the visiting circus, I mean that literally." He lied because, in all honesty, he had forbidden Watson to doctor Sera, insisting that she merely needed rest. "Rest, and a tender nursemaid?" prodded Watson with a sly smile.

Holmes shot him a nasty look and walked off, with Watson chuckling at his back. (The doctor seemed to garner great entertainment and joy from seeing Holmes' heart all a-tangle. Though Watson could see quite clearly what ailed Holmes, his good friend could not.)

"I'm afraid to see what the house looks like," she said, a smile quirking her lips. "I seem to remember you rousing me with some sort of soup."

"Your point?"

"I'm also afraid of what the kitchen will look like."

"Well," drawled Holmes. "Really, the only change is the scorch marks on the ceiling."

Sera scrubbed her face and tried to hide her grin. "Let's go survey the damage."

True, there were scorch marks, the lingering smell of frying oil, and a sink full of dishes, but, as Holmes pointed out, it could have been so much worse. "Two bachelors left to fend for themselves? Yes, I think you scraped by nearly Scott-free."

"Have you got any appointments today?" she asked casually.

"No," he said slowly, wondering where she was going with this.

"You haven't had many cases lately. Is everything alright?" She pinned him with worried eyes so clear that Holmes had to swallow before he spoke.

"Everything is fine. London seems somewhat more peaceful of late. The only cases I have had concern missing wills, a few marriage affairs, and a stolen necklace."

"You solved all that in a couple of days?"

"Yes," he stated with only the slightest hint of arrogance. "All from my easy chair, I might add."

"So, nothing today?"

"My schedule is clear."

"Good! I'll wash, you dry."

Any other time, the detective would have dug in his heels and insisted pigs fly before he dried dishes. Any other person, and he would have mocked them and walked away. But that quadrant of his heart that was occupied with Sera was growing too fast for him to disobey. He would have liked to flail and struggle against it, but the part of him in question quietly swallowed its opposers whole and advanced the line. Nothing would stop it. Steady as she goes.

It was going to conquer him. And he could do nothing to stop it.

He had read in a recent psychology journal that some people, when kidnapped, developed a condition known as Stockholm's Syndrome. In essence, they bonded with their kidnappers to such a degree that they were no longer captives, but willing hostages. Willing, happy prisoners.

Holmes realized, somewhere between the soup pots and the utensils, that he had become victim to the condition. Sera had taken him prisoner. And he liked it.

They worked in silence, and with every nonchalant touch over the passing of plates and cups, he reasoned this out with his eternally sharp brain.

He also reasoned that it might behoove him to assist the uprising in his heart. The thought intimidated him more than Dredger had that day in the shipyard, more than the largest man he had ever boxed. Because in this area, in matters of the heart, he had no prior experience, no tools at his disposal, no clues or evidence or data with which to draw a satisfactory conclusion. Or did he...?

Holmes was putting away a stack of dishes when she came back in from dumping the water on her herb garden, a few sturdy specimens of which was cresting the earth. She closed the door with a "Brr! So much for spring."

The door's wake of chill air swept over Holmes, and he shivered just slightly. It wasn't enough to bother him. "The temperature is fine. You, on the other hand, are still sensitive after your ordeal."

"I am not sensitive!" she huffed. She helped him put away the rest of the dishes, working considerably faster than him.

"Phew!" she exclaimed when they were done, almost an hour later. "I think we washed every dish under the roof." She pulled the mop from the closet and set about to getting up all the water they had dripped from the dishes.

"I concur," responded Holmes, rolling up the sodden towel in his hand and thwacking her on the butt with it.

She jumped nearly a foot and yelped in surprise, dropping her mop. Whirling on him, she growled and attacked him with her own towel, and aided the onslaught with a wooden spoon. Their howls of laughter and raucous floor thumping brought Watson to investigate.

They did not notice him as he shook his head and stole away with as much stealth as he had approached.

Holmes, being stronger and slightly quicker, gained control of both the towels. Amidst her rowdy giggles, he advanced. She held the spoon like a sword, a devilish look in her eye. Suddenly, she flipped her foot up, caught the mop by the handle, and in a few quick, confusing steps had swept at Holmes's feet. He jumped just in time and landed on the handle of the mop, pinning it. This drove her to her knees. She pushed her wooden spoon into his belly, just hard enough that, had it been a blade, it would have eviscerated him. They froze, her battle-eyes staring into his, her smile wide and daring him to move.

"Shall we call this a tie?" he asked, tilting his head.

She snorted haughtily, shook off the mindset of war. "Of course."

"Was that kung fu?"

"That is for me to know, and you to find out." They disengaged, withdrawing to themselves for a brief moment. The fight had made them both bare a little too much of their souls. With an uncomfortable 'ahem', she picked up the bucket that had been kicked to a corner and said, "Kick this under the sink and we're done."

She held the bucket out to him, and he reached out for it. A sneeze rose in him so quickly that he bent double with the force of it. He went to straighten, and was knocked down again by another sneeze. He felt his sinuses begin to clog.

"Uh, oh," groaned Sera. "I know that sneeze anywhere." She fished a hankie from her pocket and handed it to him. "You caught what I had."

"I hab not," insisted Holmes, waving away the hankie. "I don't get thick."

"'Thick'?" she repeated, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Zick," he tried to amend.

"I think the steam of the sink accelerated the onset. By this evening, your joints will be aching, your throat sore, your sinuses throbbing, and your energy sapped."

"Danks for the vote of confide - AAACHOO!"

"To bed with you, Detective," said Sera, pushing him slightly towards the stairs.

He glanced at her mischieviously. "Is that a promise?"

"You lecherous dog," she scolded without venom. "Get. With my treatment, we can nip this in the bud."

"By de way, your hands are _freezing._"

"You won't be feeling them at all if you keep this up, mister."

As Holmes climbed the stairs with knees that suddenly started to ache, all he could think was, _She didn't say no..._


	15. Warm Heart

"Sherlock Holmes, if I open this door and you are out of bed, I will be forced to sedate you. Herbally."

From the other side of the door came a rapid thumping of feet. "Don't bother if you have more of that nasty swill you call tea."

Sera snorted and nudged the door open with her foot. "Man up, detective. Your sick voice has even gone away. It's helping you get better."

Holmes was sitting in bed, bed shirt rumpled and a wince on his face as he rubbed his knees. "Or it could be the drugs Watson is administering."

The landlady shrugged, setting the legged tray over his thighs. It held a cup of tea, a glass of water, and a large bowl of lovely-smelling soup. "I won't argue. Both have their places and uses." She stirred the contents of the bowl on the tray. "Chicken soup. No additives."

"I never asked if there were additives," replied Holmes archly. "Then what is the difference between modern medicine and the herbs of ages past?"

Sera perched on the edge of the bed, face furrowed in thought. Holmes took a spoonful of soup, scalding his tongue mightily, and waited. "Most 'modern medicines' made today actually have roots in herbal healing," she began slowly. "But they take the plant and its components out of the context they should be administered in, like in concentration and method of application. My methods, those of a trained herbalist, are less invasive, easier on the body, and generally safer than those of a physician." She patted his knee. "Our mutual friend Watson excluded, of course."

"Of course," assented Holmes. He took another careful spoon of the soup. "This is good."

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" she asked, cupping her ear.

Holmes gave her the hairy eyeball and did not deign to answer, but was rewarded with her giggle. "I'm surprised you can taste it. When I get sick, I can't taste much."

"So that's how you choke down those vile concoctions."

"They aren't _vile: _they're medicinal."

"Says the witch to the detective who wouldn't really know better."

"I'm sorry, my ears are horrible today. Once more, a bit louder, please," she teased.

"Woman," said Holmes heavily, resting his spoon on the tray. "I am trying to compliment you, something I don't do to just anyone. Ask Watson."

"Sorry, sorry," she said. She folded her hands primly in her lap, fighting with her smile and losing. _He's actually trying_, she thought. _How sweet. _The realization made her blush. "You were saying?"

Holmes sighed and shook his head. "I thought it was procedure to treat sick patients with a degree of delicacy."

"Oh, shall I blow on that soup for you?" she coddled.

"Only if you want it thrown in you face," he shot back.

She grabbed her ribs and cackled. Soon, Holmes had joined her, with periodic coughing. That made her laugh even harder.

When they finally got ahold of themselves, Sera said, "Laughter is the greatest medicine."

"Does that mean-"

"No, you still have to drink it. And finish your soup."

"Buggery," he muttered. "You are such a taskmaster."

"You know you like it," she said, winking.

He wanted to reply, _You'd like it, too. _But he doused the little mental demon with cold water. "So, that fancy footwork with the mop in the kitchen...

"What of it?" she asked, picking at a string on her sleeve.

"It looked vaguely Oriental..."

"I give no hints, Sherlock. Have you solved the puzzle I presented you or not?"

Sherlock folded his hands and smiled serenely. "You put tea with every meal, a common practice in the Far East, your herbal practices are predominantly Chinese in ingredients, you have two-toed sock and silk nightclothes in your drawers, you have picked up bits and pieces of different martial arts from all over the Orient-"

"Fine, fine! Stop!" she cried, thumping him none-too-gently on the leg. "Shock of all shocks, I traveled a bit in my early adult years. But I bet you haven't guessed what for."

"You underestimate me considerably, and unfairly," chastised Holmes. "Some sort of Asian ruler wanted an American escort with practice in dance, cooking, and medicine."

She turned pale at the word 'escort'. "It's not what you think," she blurted. "I was the handmaid of a _shidafu's_ daughter!" She grew very still and quiet, face ablaze.

"And you find this embarrassing how?" prodded Holmes.

"The fact that I was a handmaid doesn't embarrass me," Sera mumbled, still looking down. "It's that I got fired from the position that is embarrassing." She met his eyes then with a look of wild desperation. "I got in trouble for being too light-handed with the lady. I let her out of the house one night so she could go meet some friends, and she got pregnant. By her bodyguard."

Holmes's expression said 'Whoa', even though he kept his peace. _International faux pas? Fascinating..._

"That is considered shameful in their culture. She was my responsibility, and I failed. I had to escape the moment I figured it out, or they would have loped off some limb in payment." She shivered. "They're not as nice around there."

"That's why you crossed a continent to answer Mrs. Hudson's correspondence. That's why you're so secretive," concluded Holmes as a statement.

She glared up at him. "Happy now?" she asked scathingly. "I've compromised my reputation and told you my deepest secret. Surely, your work here is done."

"Not quite," he said. This time, he took her hand until she met his eyes searchingly. "I wanted to know so that I can keep you safe."

A pin dropping could have been heard in the room at that moment, and the minutes after. She only broke his gaze to blink away tears. "You give a rat's ass about a mixed-breed, repressed misfit like me?"

"Much more than a rat's ass," he assured, an eyebrow cocked. _And I can't wait to show you how much._

"How long have you been sitting on this?"

"About two days after you moved in."

"And you've been leading me on, pretending to not know this whole time?"

"What can I say?" asked Holmes, spreading his arms wide. "I'm a professional."

"Ooh! You are evil!" Sera growled at him.

"_Au contraire, madam,_" he replied, the accent and words seeming natural. "I am merely misunderstood."

She folded her arms, shaking her head in disbelief. "Wow. I really don't give you enough credit."

"This concludes our lesson," Holmes said in a teacher's voice, raising his mug in a toast.

"The tea is the same as before," Sera said, reverting back to her old self. "But I put in some sassafras to try to cover the taste."

"How thoughtful," said Holmes, eyeing the mug with the look of a martyr. "Can I chase it with the water, little witch?"

"Yes," she said reluctantly, rolling her eyes. Her tone belied something Holmes couldn't discern. She traced the design on the ragged coverlet.

Holmes paused, his lips on the mug. "What?"

"Why do you call me a witch?"

"Only when we're alone. I don't intend to get you arrested."

"That's not what I mean. It," she stopped, sighed. "It kind of hurts."

Holmes wished he could beat his head against the nearest wall, but he refrained. "I..." he too made a sound of frustration. The words were hard to say. "I mean it as...a term of endearment."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. The look they exchanged at that moment was complex, she hardly daring to believe her ears and he trying to convey as much as he could twist from his tangled heart.

"En...dearment?" she stuttered, incredulous. _Could he really mean it?_

"Now I know you have cloth ears," he said, risking flashing a smile. "I won't do it anymore."

Sera's eyes were intense, but he could not puzzle out in what manner. He was aided in decipherment when she gently touched his hand. It felt like that little touch traveled everywhere, up his arm, along his scalp, down his spine, across his chest. Her fingertips were light, and they nestled in the spaces between his knuckles. She spoke so softly he almost didn't hear her. "That might be the nicest thing anyone has called me."

"I would appreciate being able to call you by a pet name," he ventured. Her hand was warmer today. Her heart was warm, too: shining forth from her eyes like a lighthouse's beam. "It can be something else."

"You already have a pet name for me," she assured gently. "No one else calls me by the name Seraphima."

"Then Seraphima it shall be."

She withdrew her hand, wondering what had just transpired. He returned to his now-cool soup, wondering the same. Sera kept him entertained until he had finished everything on the tray, and after reapplying the eucalyptus oil (he insisted his chest was tight), she left.

Holmes, worn out from her attentions (as she had probably planned all along) lay on his back under the covers she had so carefully tucked around him. Her last words as she exited the room echoed over and over in his head. "Sherlock," she had said from the door. "Don't hold back." She knew the gravity of what she said. So did he.

"I won't," he replied. He saw her back straighten, and felt rather than saw her small, tight smile.

"I won't," he whispered again to the empty room. And he fell asleep wondering about all the many, many possibilities.


	16. Dirty Feet and No Sweetheart

Sera fell across her bed that night with her heart beating like she had run miles. It pounded like it was ready to burst from her chest. "Sherlock Holmes," she said his name slowly, savoring its taste. Giggling like a schoolgirl she bounced up again, dancing to her vanity and whisking up her hairbrush. Humming an old Irish tune she thought she'd forgotten, she swayed around the room, brushing out her raw-honey-colored hair. She couldn't stop grinning like a lovestruck maid. She glanced at herself in the mirror, expression aglow. _Perhaps that's what I am._

The great detective, the unreachable bachelor, the insufferable know-it-all was interested in her! Romantically interested!

And she, the international fugitive, the kooky herbalist, the Irish rose who forgot to bloom and Spanish dancer without a song, was interested in him. She found him smart, challengingly so: enough that he was fun to be around and whose wit ever-sharpened hers. He was funny in an understated way that took an extra second to realize, but that made it all the funnier. He was a bit rough around the edges, but knowing he was putting aside his bag of wild oats for her sake made him all the more attractive. And dear God, he was handsome. Scruffy and fit and _warm. _She wanted to feel his arms around her all day, every day._  
_

Sera changed into her silk nightgown and pulled back the covers. With a final happy sigh, she blew out the candle and turned over. It would be many hours before she quietened her mind enough to slumber.

Almost the moment the pale yellow moon rose above the city, Holmes threw back his covers and started to pace. Sera's medicine was working: his joints no longer ached. He gave a one-note chuckle. A month ago, he would have thought of herbs as weeds and sticks fit for barbarians and the superstitious. She'd shown him.

"Up and about? At this hour?" asked Watson, hobbling in. "You didn't burn that candle down already, did you?"

"No," sighed Holmes. "I don't want to sleep. Time to revert back to my old habits."

"Not all of them, I hope," replied Watson pointedly, perching on his cane at the end of Holmes's pacing track. He meant the cocaine.

The detective gave him a look that was half wounded. "I haven't touched the stuff in a month, John," he said, quietly defensive, but self-incredulous.

The doctor let his shock show. He digested this piece of information thoughtfully. "Why?" He already knew the answer.

Holmes ran his hands through his hair, sinking into his chair. "I can't stop thinking about her." His eyes looked haunted, but not enough for him to hate it. "Knowing she's right there," he pointed to the floor, "And thinking about _me_ is driving me crazy."

"You're in love," said Watson simply, plopping down into the opposite chair.

Holmes gave a harsh laugh. "I knew that over a week ago. I just didn't want to believe it."

"Why not? It happens to everyone at some time or another."

"You know why! Surely, as a war veteran, you can see!" exclaimed Holmes. He leaped to his feet again to resume pacing. "I must remain untouchable, impenetrable, or my enemies in this city and abroad will take advantage of my weakness."

"She's not a weakness to you, Holmes. She's an asset. "

"Elaborate," demanded the detective.

"She's quick-witted, street-smart, and strong in heart and body, not to mention the unique skills set her circuitous life has given her. She can handle whatever opposition comes your way, can't you see?"

"That's all fine and dandy," said Holmes derisively. "But what good am I for her? I'm a man who comes home each night drunk, wounded, high, or not at all."

"I think you've tamed you negative habits quite well in the last couple of weeks."

"Watson, _I'm not suitable for her._"

"Apparently, she thinks differently."

They both grew silent again. After a minute, Watson said with soft intensity, "If you push away this opportunity, if you lock these feelings up, they will consume you from the inside out. "

"What if I hurt her? What if we hurt each other? _What if this doesn't work?_" he asked desperately.

"You will never know until you try. In fact, it will haunt you for the rest of your life."

Holmes rested his forehead against the cool glass pane of the window, eyes closed. His breath fogged his view of the darkened street. "I don't know how to handle this," he whispered, sounding for just a moment like he wasn't a grown, intelligent man, but a confused child. "I don't know how to win a woman, or keep her, or please her."

"Good, then you can start from the ground up," said Watson cheerily. "There's nothing to tear down or rebuild. Every woman is different, anyway. You'll figure it out quickly enough."

"Easy for you to say," grumbled Holmes against the glass. "You already have a fiance."

"And who's to say you won't be in the same place in a few months, or a year?" Watson smiled at his friend's back, shaking his head. "Talking about such may be putting the cart before the horse, but it is _normal _to get married, you know. It's not even illegal!"

"I sincerely doubt that by any psychiatrist's yardstick that I am normal, in any sense of the word."

"As you can see, you're more normal than you think." Watson stood and steered his friend away from the window. "You'll reverse your recovery if you keep this up. All this worrying and pining away..." With a light push, he seated Holmes. Reaching over to the moonshine still, he poured the day's distillation into a beaker and handed it to the man, who took it mindlessly and gave a good swig. Sherlock's eyes widened and he gave a long exhale. "Nearly forgot how strong it was," he chuckled, face still clouded.

"When I first met Mary, I felt much the same. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I lived from sunset to sunrise thinking about her, composing her letters and poems. I kept the flower stalls in business nearly single-handed. What you are experiencing is common, albeit a hair confusing, and very treatable." Watson picked up the violin from its case on the table and pushed it into Holmes's hands. "Play," he demanded. "Doctor's orders."

Some of the storm fell from Holmes's face as he lifted the violin to his shoulder. "How do I treat this illness, doctor?" he asked, bow poised on the strings.

"You feed a cold, you know."

Holmes smiled slightly at that and drew the bow across the strings in one long, sweet note. His eyes closed as he returned to his wooden friend, and his fingers danced. Scales, crescendos, bits of different melodies that flitted from recognition sounded about the room. And slowly, gently, by twos and threes, the notes melded into a song that came to life and eased into the world, caressing tired eyes, burning ears, and worried hearts.

"You worry so unnecessarily, Holmes," said Watson as he left the room a couple of hours later. "It will take care of itself, if you will only let it."

Holmes, staring at the violin in his lap, nodded once. "Goodnight, mother hen."

"Sleep well, old cock."

The next morning, Sera got up and set about her morning chores. It was raining again, but it did little to hamper her elation. She slid the scones in the oven, beat eggs for an omelet, started the bread, and chopped vegetables for the soup. Her voice could not hold its peace: she alternated between singing in Gaelic and humming the pitches she couldn't reach. Excitement tingled down her nerves. She wondered what the day held...

The door to the small backyard swung ajar as Holmes entered the kitchen. The light, wet spring breeze brushed across the room, caressing his clothes closer to his skin and urging him to investigate. There she was, moving like a banshee across the moor, a spirit in the storm. She was snipping herbs from plants here and there, seemingly unconcerned about the steady drizzle that banked up on her shoulders and slicked her hair. Her voice floated in and out of earshot, like the song a dying Viking hears as he crosses to Valhalla.

Holmes fell for her completely right there.

Next thing he knew, she was standing in front of him on the small stoop. "Will you lift me to the sink, so I don't muddy the floor?" He noticed she was barefoot then. "I figured it was easier to wash my feet than my shoes," she said, shrugging. Her darkened toes curled up when he glanced down at them. "Don't, I have ugly feet," she laughed uneasily, shifting.

Holmes's eyes went a fraction wide at that, and without a word he swept her knees into one arm and supported her back with his other, bridal-style. She made a small squeak of surprise, cheeks coloring. The uniform she wore made the sound of fabric on fabric, the loudest thing in the room. The rosemary and dill in her hand fragranced the air as he carried her the few steps to the sink. There, he sat her on the adjacent counter, feet in the well, and turned on the water. It flowed down her slim ankles and aided his fingertips in brushing away the mud.

Still cradling her heel, he said, "Cold hands, warm heart..."

"Dirty feet and no sweetheart," she finished. Their eyes met.

Holmes drifted closer, and she did at the same time. Their lips touched gently.

The rain stopped a minute later. Their kiss did not.


	17. All in a Day's Flirt

Gladstone eventually interrupted their kiss. He waddled across the floor and out the open door into the yard. Holmes and Sera broke apart to watch him curiously.

At that moment, Watson entered the kitchen, muttering, "He'll need _another _bath after this." He noticed Holmes and Sera. "Oh. Good morning to you both."

"Good morning," they both replied, slightly breathless. Suddenly, they realized the position they were in, Holmes practically with his hand up her skirt and Sera with flushed cheeks and just-bitten lips. They put more distance between them and ahemed and harrumphed through adjusting their clothes and wiping their mouths.

Watson snorted and on his way to the door muttered loud enough for them to hear, "Took you long enough."

This renewed Sera's blush and made her grin sheepishly, still perched on the sink, and Holmes rubbed the back of his neck, finding great interest in the ceiling.

With the doctor's back to them, Sera gave a little giggle. "Help me down?" she asked.

Holmes hesitated a breath before extending his hand. Her touch as she pressed lightly on it set his hand on fire. _Good God, I want this woman._ And knowing that his mind was made up made him want her even more. She appeared to be similarly affected. Swaying slightly, she seemed to have a hard time letting go of his hand, or tearing her gaze from his.

"GLADSTONE! HERE BOY!" hollered Watson from the stoop, attempting to peer past the bushes in the flooded yard.

Sera gasped. "The scones!" She dashed to the oven and pulled out the just-barely-salvageable breakfast. Holmes's hand grew cold, much to his chagrin.

Gladstone toddled in and shook his coat dry, proceeding to splatter them all with mud.

"Ugh!"

"Ew!"

"Bad dog, Gladstone!" scolded Holmes. He scooped up the animal and held him at arm's length. "I'll take care of the mongrel."

"He's _our _mongrel, Holmes," corrected Watson as the detective walked out.

Sera closed the door to the yard and sighed, hands on her hips, staring at the artful drops of mud on every surface below four feet. "At least it's kitchen-cleaning day."

Watson pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Sera, then withdrew a second one and wiped his face clean. "I don't see a lot of that little furball," said Sera conversationally as she stripped rosemary from its stem.

"Holmes tests various brews on him. What with the moonshine experiment he's been conducting, I imagine Gladstone has been drunk or unconscious most of the time."

Sera's eyes widened. "Oh." Feeling guilty for no reason she could discern, she said, "Doctor, I am sorry about what you saw. It won't interfere with my duties, I promise."

"Young lady, I couldn't care less," said Watson, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Just make him happy. He needs more of that in his life."

She nodded, eyes softening as she remembered Holmes's pensive face when he thought no one was watching him. "I can see."

And then she was left alone in the kitchen, wondering for what felt like the thousandth time what had just happened.

Holmes dumped Gladstone in the washtub and rinsed him clean. It reminded him strongly of Sera and her pretty feet and his fingers on her ankle, which was smooth bone covered in even smoother skin.

"I'm done for, old boy," he sighed to Gladstone.

The dog whined and tried to escape the confines of the towel that Holmes was rubbing him all over with.

"Quit that. I'll not have you creating work for..." Just saying her name seemed ineffective, so he tried, "...my lady." That sounded perfect. "You know it's bad when just her feet are enticing."

The dog _ruffed!_ and ran as fast as his stubby legs could carry him out of the room, no doubt to see what his food bowl still held from last night.

"Man's best friend, by arse," snorted Holmes, straightening. He smelled eggs and herbs from downstairs, so he followed his nose to the place where the largest chunk of his heart lay. Sera set his plate before him and gave him a coy peck on the cheek when Watson wasn't looking, then vanished from his side. But the feel of her hand and the imaginary imprint of her lips would take much, much longer to fade.

Throughout the day, Holmes kept showing up wherever Sera was. Uncannily, it was always when she was settling her mind off of him and onto another task. When she dusted the parlor, he was there, poking her ribs and catching the small knickknack she dropped in surprise. That tickled him so much that she lightly smacked his shoulder.

"You are evil!"

"You don't know the half of it," he replied, stealing her lips for a short second and then disappearing.

Sera growled and returned to dusting. "I thought I left ninja warfare behind me. Wrong again."

When she stirred the large stock pot of fish stew on the stove, he was there, leaning against the counter behind her with a slightly lecherous smirk on his face.

"What are you up to?" she asked, half turning.

"Discovering the perfect curve," he replied nonchalantly, staring pointedly at her butt.

She squealed and put her hands on her hips. "You are insufferable!"

"Those curves, too."

She shook her head, cheeks reddening, she ladled up a small amount of soup. Blowing on it and cupping her hand beneath it, she tipped it against his mouth. "What's it need?"

Holmes smacked a moment, then said, "Sugar."

"Don't you mean salt?"

"No, I mean this," and he leaned in for a quick kiss. Before Sera could muster half a defense, he was gone. "Ooh, you devil!" she cried, stomping one foot in frustration.

And so it went throughout the day: he goosed her butt when she served tea (nearly causing her to drop the entire tray of china and making Watson pinch the bridge of his nose); she flicked him behind the ear when she casually passed through a room; he grabbed hold of her apron string and let the bow unravel until she noticed what he was doing. And so it went.

Yes, she got her chores done, and even picked up a couple of extra ones to dissuade her guilt at finding such naughty enjoyment in her job. All day, her smile never faded. And the twinkle in Holmes's eyes never darkened.

Evening came and the sun bathed the city orange. She was beating a rug on the back clothesline when he sneaked up on her again. Before she could sense his approach he folded warm, strong forearms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Got you."

"Oh! You scared me," she breathed, putting her hands over his.

"Hopefully in a good way," he murmured hotly against her ear. He was pleased to feel her shiver.

"Yes, in a good way." She closed her eyes and turned her head to inhale the scent of his hair.

They stood still for a few seconds in an easy, intimate pose. He buried his nose in her neck, which smelled of lavender. Her abdomen stilled as she held her breath. Slowly, gently, he pressed one kiss beneath her ear, then two, all the way down her shoulder to the start of her dress. Her fingers tightened on his hands and she exhaled. "There's a red sky tonight."

"I'm sure there's more than a few sailors who are thrilled," he replied dryly, ceasing his exploration. Teasingly, he unwrapped his arms, hands dragging across her stomach. Her breath hitched and he smiled. "And now I am studying the perfect plane," he intoned.

Sera laughed airily and turned in his half-embrace, resting her arms on his wide, wiry-muscled shoulders. "I do so love it when you wax poetic about geometry."

"Shall I wax poetic about architecture?" He placed his hands on her hips. "A sturdy base is necessary, but it must maintain grace and tasteful embellishment." Reaching behind her, he tugged her bow tighter. "And as befitting a structure of such majesty, the next level-"

"Oh, stop it," she chuckled. She craned up and stole a chaste kiss, which he tried to deepen, but she pulled back. "Come on, it's getting dark."

"I do work well in no light," he responded cheerfully.

She punched him in the arm. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Seraphima?" he asked.

Sera bit her lip. "We need to slow down."

"But the door's right there."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Holmes tilted her chin with one finger. "What's wrong? Am I making you uncomfortable with my attentions?"

"Wow, you hit the nail on the head with the first guess," she said, impressed.

"I am a master of reading body language. Go on."

"Well, it's not so much the attention as it is..."

"What?"

"I just think it's a bit improper. There, I said it."

"Go on," he repeated patiently, retracting to studying the palm of her hand like a mystic.

"Don't get me wrong, I like it. But it makes me feel guilty."

"How so?"

"If we keep it up at this rate, you'll have me naked by the end of the week."

Holmes glanced up sharply with a wide, wicked grin. "Promise, darling?"

"Oh, you," she scoffed. "Do try to be serious."

"Alright, alright. Don't get my hopes up with such talk. What should stipulations from now on include?"

"Hands holding, hugging, and kissing."

"That's basically what we've been doing," he said matter-of-factly.

"I know, but it has the potential to grow exponentially without rules."

"But what about pinching your rear? It's the best application I have yet to find for the opposing thumb."

"You are in no position to bargain," she sniffed.

"Please?" he keened, widening his eyes in a aberration of a puppy-dog look. "I will warn you amply, so that your precious constitutions will not be offended."

Sera put her hands on her hips. She seemed to do that more and more around him. "Fine," she sighed. "But only rarely."

"Excellent," he said, perhaps too quickly.

She gave him a calculating look. "Allow me to define 'rarely' as once a day, at most."

"Can I save up these little touches into one big, long-"

"You idiot!" she laughed. "I cannot believe I made a pervert out of the world's greatest detective."

"I am not a pervert, I am merely a man. All the same, it is a gift you should try to cultivate."

"Tea pot!" she blurted, snapping her fingers.

Holmes blinked. "Pardon?"

"That's your warning word. If I say it, that means slow down."

"What if your lips are otherwise engaged? What if you want me to stop outright?"

"Come now, Sherlock, you are an observant man. I think in both cases you will know my intentions."

He rotated her hand and folded it between his own two, brushing his lips across the knuckles, then pressing it to his face. His expression became one of wonder and never-stop-never-leave wishfullness that made Sera's heart melt. "Happy now, lady taskmaster?"

She made a face at him and stuck out her tongue. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"Good." He opened her hand once more to kiss her palm. "That's all I could ever want."


	18. Rat Innards and a Tea Ceremony

Sera swept into Holmes' room at eight o'clock one night, carrying a sloshing tea kettle and an array of small canisters and jars in a modest basket. "I've got a surprise for you!"

Holmes looked up from the rat he was dissecting under a magnifier and said, "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment. This rodent's bowel contents cannot wait."

Averting her eyes from the varmint spread-eagle on a board under Holmes' scalpel, Sera cradled her chin in her hand, shaking her head. "That is possibly the most unusual thing you have ever said."

"Give me time, I'm sure I can think of something stranger."

"Aren't you curious about the surprise?"

"My darling, I am a world-class detective, and as such, have already deduced the nature of your visit. The tea kettle, small bags and myriad jars all lead me to conclude that the newest tea samples from the docks have somehow stuck to your graceful hands."

"An apt way to put it, though I didn't pinch them. I happen to have a wonderful contact on one of the merchant ships who owed me a favor. He gave me samples of the newest leaves from India, China, and Japan. The queen herself hasn't tasted these yet."

"Hmm..."

"Is that an interested 'hmm', or a pseudo-listening 'hmm'?"

"I'll be done in a moment or two. Why don't you brew the first of the selection and take tea with me?"

"Sounds grand." Giving the dead rat a wide berth, Sera set the kettle on a hook over the fireplace's hearty blaze. A set of tongs rested orange-hot in the fire, holding something obscured by embers and ash. Knowing better than to touch one of Holmes' experiments, Sera knelt on the floor to pet Gladstone. The dog's foot started to thump when she scratched his ribs. "I'm a bit scared to ask, but what are you looking for in the deceased's innards?"

Holmes looked over his shoulder. "It swallowed something very important, which I must retrieve."

"Ah. What?"

"Inconsequential," replied Holmes airily. "What is the first brew called?"

"Phoenix pearls. It's a green tea married with jasmine flowers and rolled by hand into a pearl-shape. Are you familiar with the lore of the phoenix?"

"Yes, but Oriental legends are more your forte than mine. Regale me."

"Very well. Phoenix are mythical birds that die every 1000 years in a burst of fire, only to rise from the ashes as a fledgling to begin their life cycle over again. They are creatures of good fortune, and they symbolize woman and her ways in the arts and culture of the east."

"And dragons represent man. That is why the two creatures are often painted together on pottery and such."

"Very good, Sherlock." The water began to boil, cutting them off. Holmes retrieved what he was looking for, set it in a small dish of rubbing alcohol, and straightened his back with a crack and a sigh. He stood and walked over to the sitting area, where Sera was kneed before a tray at the hearth. "Have you ever seen a Japanese tea ceremony?"

"Can't say that I have," replied Holmes, stealing her lips before joining her cross-legged on the floor.

"Then allow me to broaden you cultural horizons." Sera said, dipping her hand into the basket. She set the utensils out carefully: a canister of tea stamped with a phoenix grasping a pearl, a small scoop, a single bowl with blue crackled glaze. Each movement was smooth, precise, and graceful. Watching her hands and the content smile on her face, Holmes felt his heart start to slow and his breathing settle. A trivet kept the hot kettle from burning the tray. She swirled some water in the teapot and bowl and ritually cleaned each utensil, and dumped the waste water into a open-mouthed ceramic jar. The implements were lined up exactly on the tray. "I couldn't get my hands on everything for the traditional method," she murmured. "But you get the gist of it."

"The water represents purity, right?"

"Yes. And only the host can touch it."

"What about the flower?" he asked, motioning to the vase with one purple cosmos.

"It cleanses the eye. That is the whole point of a ceremony: to cleanse and unify."

"I see."

"It also is a way to show respect to someone...or love."

Sherlock looked into her eyes, which shone sweetly just for him across the space. He leaned over to kiss her again, but she put a hand on his chest in the gentlest way. "_Temae _has been done this way for hundreds of years. You can wait a few minutes." Still, she ran a thumb over the stubble on his cheek before returning to her task. "Usually, there would be _matcha_, or powdered green tea for this, but it takes hours to grind right and I didn't have the time."

"How is that served?"

"Usually like a thick, bright green liquid that tastes like grass."

"Then I'm glad we have this. No offense."

"None taken. That's one thing I don't miss from Japan: weed tea."

Holmes chuckled. "Thank you."

"For what?" Sera asked, scooping a six of the tea pearls into the bowl and ladling steaming water over them.

"For opening up to me."

"I'm just telling you what you already know. You had me pegged probably as soon as I walked in the door on my first day."

"No, actually. By lunch the next day."

"I'd better be careful to not reveal too much, or you might get bored with me."

Holmes stilled, then covered her hand with restrained urgency. The look in his eyes was intense, and his tone fervent, reverent. "That," he said, "Will never happen. Not even when I know everything about you."

Sera's eyes went soft, and she reach out to cup his cheek again for a short moment. With their paired hands still occupied, she used her free hand to tap the bowl with the tea. "Meet Crackle, my personal tea bowl."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "You have a personal tea bowl?"

"Nearly everyone in Japan, from the dirtiest beggar to the Emperor, has their own."

"And they name them things like...Crackle?"

"Well, Crackle's real name is _Ame Oite Waga Matsuge._"

"Which means...?"

"'Rain on my Eyelashes'. But Crackle seems more fitting, doesn't it?"

"Well, it is decidedly easier to pronounce."

"Yes, you Westerners are always so concerned with what trips off the tongue," she teased.

"Pardon me, but most of the greatest poets in the world come from the West. Besides, you _are_ Western by origin."

"Aye, 'tis true," she said, putting her hands over her heart and finding the Scottish accent back in her voice.

Holmes blinked, then grinned wickedly. "Feel free to use your native tongue anytime, preferably in dark, enclosed spaces where I can hear you better..."

"Now, now, laddie. Tawlk li' tha'll have ya thrown in ta loch."

"Hold on, I'll find a large book for you to read from..."

Sera laughed, blush tinging her cheeks. "Time to drink." She picked up the bowl and held it out to him with both hands. "Guests first."

Holmes sipped, reveling in the floral notes and hum of something akin to hay. "Divine. Surely your hands are magic."

"No, it's all Crackle. He makes the best tea in all of Eurasia. Now, in the ceremony, all the guests sip a few times, compliment the tea and the bowl, and pass it with a formal bow to the next guest."

Holmes obliged the bow, and watched her sip. "Oh, that's nice on a brisk evening," she sighed.

"So are you. In any climate and weather, actually." Holmes tipped her chin with a finger, leaning over the tray. "Seraphima, I love you."

She closed the distance to place her lips upon his. "I love you, too," she whispered against them.

They spent several hours perusing all the flavors, from the new Earl Grey from the Orange Plantation to the monkey-picked oolong from China. When the clock chimed eleven, Sera bade Holmes goodnight and readied for bed. But Holmes still had work to do. He slid his hands into thick leather gloves and carefully pulled the tongs out of the fire. Clamped in them was a white-hot circle of gold. Using tweezers, he took the diamond he had extracted from the belly of the rat (blasted thing had nearly run off with it) and pressed the stone into the soft, glowing metal. With hawk eyes, he checked for imperfections. Satisfied, he doused the thing in water with a cloud of steam, then placed it in a velvet bag around his neck. Patting it, he said, "Soon. Definitely soon."

It had been nearly a month since Seraphima had arrived, but Holmes still hadn't patched the hole in his floor from the elephant hunting pistol incident. Somehow, he couldn't find the heart to. It allowed him a view of her sleeping form, illuminated by the streetlights peeking through her shutters. He used it nearly every night to watch her sleep, and usually dozed off despite himself beside the peephole on his tiger rug. Tonight was no different.

**(Author's Note)**

**EEEEK! What is Holmes planning? Sorry about the long wait, peeps. Midterms are a beast in the same family as the yeti. Review and tell me your thoughts! Things are going to go horribly awry in the next chapter...  
**


	19. Ninjas and Dancing

The docks in England were a grimy, unsafe, smelly place to be. Rodents were rampant, rotting boards were constantly being discovered the hard way, and you never knew when a netted load dangling in the air would fall prey to a frayed rope and drop on someone's head. But to Chang, an Asian dockhand, it was practically home. He worked there for long hours each day, readying different boats for departure. Most nights when he came home to his wife, Ping, who was pregnant with their fourth child, he would be shaking with exhaustion. Until he realized it wasn't exhaustion that made him tremble. In fact, he shook nearly all the time, and it got progressively worse over several weeks.

Chang had heard about a healer who frequented the market and traded herbal cures for foodstuffs and such. She claimed to not understand the other Asians whom she bought fish from, but somehow knew exactly what they said. And according to these same Asians, she also used plants native to Chang's mother country in her healings, with all the skill of a _Kampo_ master. All this made Chang slightly wary, but being too poor to pay for an English doctor (who would only leech him dry, or put him out of work for days with an invasive surgery), he had no choice.

By the time he found the woman, called Sera by those in the market who knew her, the trembles were so bad he couldn't even pick up chopsticks to his mouth. Sera followed him at his urging to a less conspicuous alley adjacent to the market, and listened carefully to Chang as he hesitantly described what ailed him. Nodding thoughtfully, she proceeded to answer him in a smooth Shikoku dialect that she would meet him the next day with treatment to stave off his shakes. Chang recovered from his surprise and asked what she would charge, pulling out the few measly pounds he was able to scrape up. Her reaction to the money was borderline violent, and she insisted he keep the bills. It was just as well, for Chang feared she would have simply run off with the money. But she kept her promise, giving him a regimen to take each day and instructions on where to find the ingredients when he ran out, and Chang did not forget her help.

So when Sera sought out Chang on the deck of the boat was working, Chang leapt at the opportunity to repay her. He loaded her basket with samples of tea from every chest he could reach in the ship's hold, and sent her on her way with a bow and a request that she visit his newborn son, who was running a fever. She smiled and said she would drop off the medicine in two days, same place as before.

Later that night, Chang was walking the deck of the vessel, taking the midnight watch. But he couldn't shake the feeling something was amiss. Sailors and other men of the sea have a sixth sense attuned to changes in the air, and at that moment, Chang's warning gong was clanging. He sniffed: the air smelled like fish, salt, rotting wood and...black powder?

Suddenly, the air around Chang was punctured by several small explosions at his feet that threw up thick smoke. Coughing and disoriented, Chang was knocked to his hands and knees from behind. Before he had the chance to see his attacker, a rope was slipped around his ankles and Chang was jerked into the air, yelling. When he opened his watering eyes, he was dangling fifty feet in the air by the feet from the T of the main mast. In front of him was a figure dressed and hooded in black, with only a slit for eyes. This figure held a shiny katana sword pointed at his throat. Another figure held the end of the rope that suspended Chang fifty feet from death. Chang sucked in a breath, eyes widening in fear. A ninja. But how here, in England?

"Where is the healer woman?" barked the figure in Japanese. When he received no answer, the blade flashed, and Chang jerked an inch lower in the air, the rope partially cut. "Where is she?"

"I...I don't know where she lives!" quavered the terrified man. "Please, spare me!"

"Tell me how you found her, and you may go home to your family."

"I..." Chang bit his lip. He did not want to betray Sera to these ninjas who surely meant her harm, but what would his family do if he did not come home tonight? His wife's tired face and his children's skinny limbs flashed in his mind. "She comes to the market often."

"You will show me, or you will die slowly and painfully, in front of your family," snarled the ninja. He signaled, and Chang was lowered none too gently to the deck. His head was jerked up by the hair, and he met the brown eyes of his assailant. "We know you plan to see her in two days. You will go to the market as planned and meet her there. If you try anything, remember: we are everywhere. We are always watching you." And with another mini explosion of smoke, the ninja was gone.

Chang sat on the deck for a long time. This time, it wasn't his disease that made him tremble.

SXHSXHSXHSXHSXHSXHSXH

Holmes knocked on Sera's ajar door and poked his head in. "Are you ready to go?"

Sera was tying a green silk sash at her waist. "Almost." With a final yank, she said, "Now I am." She was wearing an ankle-length skirt and boots, with a blouse corseted on the outside and a shawl pinned to her chest. Her hair was curled and cascaded down to her mid-back, tied back from her face with a ribbon. The mishmash of colors made her look something like a gypsy.

"Are you sure about this, Sherlock? Do I look alright?"

"Come now, you look stunning. You'll be fine. Watson wants to do a bit of gambling, and you need to get out. All you do is go to the market."

"True, but I get nervous in crowds," she said, fidgiting.

Holmes grasped her twisting hands and smiled assuringly. "I'll be with you. You have nothing to fear."

Sera looked a bit like a balking horse, eyes slightly wild and her posture anxious. But she bravely squeezed his fingers back and inhaled. "Then let's go."

They exited the flat onto the street that showed restrained but growing signs of London nightlife. Holmes offered his arm to Sera, who took it happily, and they walked behind Watson for about a mile into the heart of the city. The pub in question, The Fourleaf Clover, was bustling even this early. "Our first stop is one of pure entertainment," said Watson airily as he held the door. "Drink, dance, and a bit of gambling for all." As they ducked into the atmosphere's bawdy music, a bottle smashed the wall next to them, narrowly missing Sera.

"Lovely place," commented Sera, brushing beads of ale from her sleeve and hair.

"A bit rowdy," conceded Holmes. He tweaked her ear. "But then, so are you." The band finished swigging their flasks and set up a lively tune. The guitar and bass cello thrummed and strummed, while the violin plunged in and out of the melody like the Loch Ness threaded the waves. Many of the people grabbed their partners and began to dance in a squarish pattern around the floor.

A smile crept onto Sera's face. "I know this song. You've done it now, detective."

"Done what?"

"You brought an Irish girl to an Irish pub with an Irish band. So you owe me an Irish dance."

Holmes stared at her. "You mean to say you don't like crowds, but you're willing to dance in them?"

"You can take the lass out of the Loch, but you canno' take the Loch out of the lass," she proclaimed.

"I believe my coordination is better suited for a boxing ring."

She unfolded his arms and began to tug him along. "Just follow my lead."

Truth be told, Holmes was hardly a dancer. He squashed Sera's toes a time or two and nearly knocked over a couple at one point, much to Sera's amusement. But once he put his brain to work on the puzzle, he was able to see the pattern of the steps. A few minutes later, Holmes had gotten the gist of the dance and was able to formulate thoughts aside from where his feet were going.

"Feel that? You're leading," beamed Sera.

"It's only proper," said Holmes.

"Pish posh. Don't be so antiquated."

"'Tis true, darling."

"If the leader knows what he's doing, then he can lead," said Sera as the song ended. She touched the tip of his nose, smiling coyly. "And not until."

"I'll not argue suffrage with you, my dear. You are the poster child of what independant, modern women strive to be." The next song was slower, meant for lovers. Sera and Holmes quickly adapted a swaying, circular step. He whispered hot in her ear. "Have I ever told you that your fiery spirit drives me crazy in the best possible way?"

"Oh, someone's being flattering. Do go on," said Sera, her mouth quirking.

"You're rather obstinate, sometimes. But that just means you know what you want, and won't compromise your goals and dreams."

She snorted. "Good save. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with," she agreed. "But I do love you, and I try to let that seep into everything I say and do."

Holmes pecked her lips, eyes glowing. "You do a marvelous job. I love you, too." As one they shifted position: he rested his chin on her head and she buried herself in his shirt front. "And I've never met a more courageous, daring person."

"Remind you of someone?" she chuckled. "We are rather alike in those respects."

"True, but I don't know if I could bring myself to move from my native country to a land halfway around the globe with a new language and set of customs, all for a job."

"It wasn't just a job," she sighed, her eyelashes tickling his neck. "It was a way to escape the pain. Mam was dead, Pa was never coming back...I had nothing to stay for, and staying just hurt more. Like dancing in tall grass and rolling in salt."

He leaned back and met her eyes. "Do you have something to stay for now?" The couple stilled, and became the sun in a solar system of rotating couples.

She was reading his face as hard as she could and staring into his eyes like she could plumb the depths of his soul. Slowly, she nodded." Yes. I do."

Something passed between them then: a shiver of something that bound them tighter than steel cable, that took root and shimmered in both of their hearts like tiny comets.

"Wait a few more days for me to get some things in order," he whispered. "Then, I promise."

She reached up and cupped his face in her palms. "I have waited all my life to find you. I can wait a few more days."


	20. Two Kinds of Stars, An Attack

Watson, Sherlock, and Sera made their way home at about one in the morning, happily chatting as they walked together. The streets were quiet, and fog rolled in off the Thames to make a low, mystical blanket that swirled around their feet as they walked. About a mile from 221 Baker, they began to see the brick columns of a decorative fence. "I never knew this park was here," commented Sera as they passed the wrought iron gates, which were ajar.

"It has a moon garden, if I'm not mistaken," replied Watson.

"Moon garden?"

"It is made of all white flowers, trees, and rocks, designed to reflect moonlight."

"That sounds lovely," she said enthusiastically.

"Want to see?" asked Holmes.

"Alright," she said, hitching up her shawl.

"You two go on, I'm off to bed," said Watson, yawning.

Both of them expressed disappointment and tried to persuade him to accompany them, but Watson insisted, "I have an unusual polyp to remove from a member of Parliament tomorrow. It's in a rather sensitive place." They chuckled. "I must be well rested. Have fun, you two." And off he walked, vanishing in the mist.

At a touch, the door to the park opened wider, enough to raise goosebumps on Sera's arms. Holmes noticed her scrubbing at them and smiled devilishly. "Scared of the dark, dear?"

"No, just what it hides," she replied. Steeling herself, she strode forward and said, "Are you coming?"

They tread the meandering path with no real regard for speed or time. Content in each other's company, and in holding hands, they saw no one and heard nothing but the muffled pad of boots on pine needle carpet and the occasional, beautiful hoot of an owl.

Sera sighed. "I love this time of night. There's nobody about to disrupt the sounds of the natural world."

"What was it like living with people who had no electricity, no factories?" queried Holmes. "I cannot imagine such...silence."

"Oh they had noise, just not where I lived and worked. The summer house of the family was far away from the city. Their cities are almost as industrious as ours." She looked up as she walked. "There were more stars there, you know. A whole sky shot through with them. Out here there are only a few dozen."

Holmes looked up, too. "I never noticed before. It's exclusive to a city, you see. All the smoke and dust clouds our view of the night."

"Without stars to gaze upon, even a handful, I would go mad," she revealed. "I adore the celestial bodies."

"I quite agree. Though I find the science of their movements and laws governing them more interesting than the stuff poets spout." Holmes was quiet for a moment. "If you ever wanted to visit the Orient again, I would be happy to come with you. It sounds like a lovely place."

Sera stopped dead in the path.

"Are you alright? You're pale."

"Hush!" she said sternly, holding out a hand.

Holmes was first irked at her command, but did as bade, listening himself. She sounded scared. The sounds of darkness shrouded them, pressed at their ears. The insects and the very faint sounds of small creatures in the grass were silent, leaving only the sigh of the trees,

They heard the hissing at the same time. In the moment Holmes tried to place the sound, Sera clapped a hand over his eyes.

_BANG! BANG! BANG! _Three bright flashes of explosions pierced the darkness not feet from them. Holmes saw only a tiny amount of the light, but the heat and force of the explosions hurt his ears. Sera cried out and pulled away from him, cradling her face. "Run!" she screamed, eyes stinging and tearing. He took her by the elbow and ran, pulling her along. The night was suddenly alive. Figures, no more than shadows, flanked the stumbling couple and kept pace. "Ninjas!" she said, confirming Holmes' fear. Running to the gate of the park took serious effort, for Holmes could only urge the blind Sera along. Holmes could see the strike of the tinder a mere half second before they threw the flash bombs, and was able to jerk the blinded Sera out of their path, shielding his eyes with a forearm.

Holmes stopped his headlong bolt to cover Sera with his body as a tree in front of them burst into roaring flame, blocking their path. She screamed as the heat blasted them, and Holmes felt it sear the back of his neck and arms.

Sera gave one more rub to her eyes, blinking and scowling. The blindness passed. She gave a growl of frustration that sounded like a tomcat gearing up to fight, and said, "This way!" She dashed off faster than he thought her capable of. The woods grew eerily silent again. "Holmes, I have something to tell you," she said, sliding to a halt in a clearing and reaching behind her back. "When I got fired, it wasn't because of my inability to sew." The hand appeared from behind her back with a handful of throwing stars. As she glanced into his face, Holmes was struck by just how different she looked. Hair wild like a lioness, eyes glinting with fight and hand full of steel. "It was because I was secretly learning ninjitsu." The underbrush rustled and, as one, they turned back to back. Holmes stuck up his fists, feeling Sera's arm twitch behind him. He heard a thud of impact and a dying man's gurgle.

"And that's a problem, why?" asked Holmes, panting and scanning the shadows, some of which moved.

"They tend to frown upon foreigners-" He felt her twitch again. Another thud and gasp. "-learning their martial arts." She glanced over her shoulder. "Here they come!"

Ninjas leapt from the trees and tore from the brush, yelling with their charge, holding katanas. Four in all.

One sliced at Holmes. He skittered out of the way just in time, but the other was there, aiming a diagonal that would split Holmes from shoulder to hip. Sera's hands, holding a throwing star in each, blocked the slice. She cried out as the opposite points of the stars pierced her palms. Holmes reached over her, over the trapped katana, and backfisted the ninja in the temple. He dropped to the ground, landing on his katana awkwardly and killing himself.

Sera jerked to the side as a katana took off a small tuft of her hair. The ninja yelled an attack cry and went for a jab, trying to impale the woman. She went to the side again, kicked the point of her boot into the handle of the sword, and sent it flying. The ninja reached for the sais at his belt, but Sera crossed her wrists and when she pulled them sharply apart, the ninja's throat was between them. Blood sprayed her front.

Holmes had managed to cripple the sword arm of one of the ninjas a disarm the other, but the crippled one still had a sword and the disarmed one was reaching for something on his belt. Holmes aimed a left-foot kick at the chest of the latter, but changed it in midair to a right-foot. The dark-clad man went sailing backwards, landing on his back.

The sword man yelled and ran forward, intending to skewer the detective. At the last moment he sidestepped the attack and stuck out his foot, tripping the swordsman. Holmes put a knee in the ninja's back, grabbed his head, and twisted sharply. The man went limp.

Sera pointed behind him. "He's gonna-!"

Holmes turned in time to see the ninja he had kicked throw something on the ground that exploded and threw up a thick wall of smoke.

"-get away." Sera finished. They heard the ninja run through the underbrush. In the silence that followed, no more dark figures leapt at them. The crickets began to sing again. Observing the three dead men in the clearing, Sera's knees suddenly gave out. She collapsed on the ground, dropping the metal stars, and held her shaking, bleeding hands up. Her blouse was sprayed thoroughly with dark stains. "Sherlock," she whispered, going even paler.

"Seraphima," breathed Holmes, dropping to his knees beside her. He clenched her tight to his chest. "You'll be alright, you'll be alright..."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. And then she fainted.

SHXSSHXSSHXSSHXSSHXSSHXS

Holmes kicked the door to 221 Baker Street open, yelling loud enough to wake the neighborhood, "Watson! Help!"

In less than ten seconds, the doctor appeared at the top of the stairs. "What in blazes-" He saw that Holmes carried a bloodied and unconscious Sera. "Good Lord!" As Watson navigated the stairs with his cane Holmes walked briskly to Sera's room, kicking open that door, as well. With forethought, he laid her on the floor so that she wouldn't bloody the bed. Watson knelt beside him. "What happened?" he asked.

Holmes yanked a blanket off the end of the bed and put it folded up under her head, and one under her feet. "We were attacked. That's not all her blood."

Watson looked up at him sharply and switched to doctor mode. He examined the woman, making note of her injuries. "Lacerations on the palms, fairly deep. First-degree burns on most of her exposed skin. Eyes irritated, but they will heal."

"It was ninjas, Watson," said Holmes.

The doctor sucked in a breath. "My bag is upstairs..."

Holmes dashed off, taking the stairs three at a time. When he returned, Sera was blinking up at Watson, tears in her eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated.

"Hush that," said Holmes, sternly but gently. Watson began to clean and wrap her hands. She hissed and tried to pull away as the iodine hit her wound. "Easy, easy. It'll pass," soothed Holmes, stroking her cheek.

"I'll need to sew up this one," said Watson quietly.

Sera whimpered and tried to get free again, eyes wide. "My hands, please no..."

"I promise, it will only hurt for a little while," said Watson, pinching the skin together.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," she sniffed, tears overflowing her eyes.

"Shh, shh." The detective turned her face away from what Watson was doing. "Look at me. Recite all the constellations you know."

"Ursa M-major," she started shakily. As Watson plunged the needle in the first time, she flinched and tried to see what he was doing, but Holmes held her face. "Ursa Minor," he urged.

"Cygnus, Lyra, D-draco, Taurus," she continued, closing her eyes and breathing through her teeth. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For killing those men." She averted her eyes in shame. "I killed them, without a second thought. I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly, dear. It was self-defense. I killed one, too."

"Do you still love me?" she asked. Her face was still flecked with the blood of the dead ninja.

Holmes brought his face closer, eyes fervent. "I never stopped."

"Done," declared Watson, snipping the string.

"I thought you were going to die," she whispered.

"I thought you were, too."

"Then is it justified? To kill to protect your loved ones?"

Holmes internalized the question, then nodded. "Yes."

She gave a sigh, and some of the sadness left her features. "I am such a pansy," she muttered, sitting up. "Fainting at the sight of my own blood. Ridiculous."

"Well," Holmes said, helping her sit up. "Not so ridiculous as falling for me."

"True," she conceded. Looking down at her ruined blouse and shawl, which somehow still clung to her shoulders, she shivered a little. "I need to change. Can you wait to salve my burns?"

"Yes," said Watson. "I'll tend Holmes. We'll be in the exam room."

As the two men walked to the doctor's exam room, Holmes felt the last vestiges of adrenaline leave his system. Now his body wanted to sleep, though the throbbing sting of his seared skin and the questions whirling in his head kept him wide awake. He took off his ruined shirt while Watson opened a jar of salve and applied it liberally to his burns.

"Ninjas?" asked Watson. "As in..."

"Yes," replied Holmes grimly. "I have reason to believe they followed her here because she secretly learned parts of their martial art they do not want known to outsiders, much less those leaving the country."

"They mean to kill her for what she knows?"

"Yes."

Watson rubbed his shoulder, the one with the bullet scar. It was something Holmes hardly ever saw the ex-soldier do. It meant he was afraid. But his face soon hardened into that look of a warrior who knows the enemy is near, and intends to do something about it. "We can't let that happen."


	21. Sera's Last Secret, Sharing A Bed

Sera felt tediously calm as she washed her face, and changed her clothes. Scrubbing the blood from under her fingernails almost made her tear up again, but she contained it. _It had to be done, _she thought, screwing up her eyes from her pale, preyed upon reflection. But the pain in the eyes of the dying ninjas would haunt her. _They would only have committed _sepuku_ anyway, if you had simply beat them, _whispered the logical side of her brain._  
_

"But that doesn't make it right," she whispered. Bracing her hands on the vanity, she ducked her head. The anguish welled up in her. For ten seconds, she let it have its way, she let it run rampant. It burned like capsicum, like acid poured in her chest, consuming her like a cold fire. But at the count of ten, she lifted her head, inhaled, and drove it all back into its box. _I am stronger than this. _Finding her appearance satisfactory for company, she walked out of her room and found Holmes and Watson.

Watson was applying a bandage around the upper portion of Holmes' arms, and the detective had his back to her. Sera gasped very quietly at her lover's muscular, bare spine. Her fingers itched to run along those living bumps and cords like they itched to stroke lavender. She almost walked forward and did so, but contained herself and simply closed the distance.

"How do you feel?" asked Watson, flashing Sera a concerned look.

"I'm alright," she said, smiling bravely. "I think my injuries warrant no further attention, doctor, than what you have bestowed. Holmes shielded me from the brunt of them."

"Very well. You're the herbalist," Watson replied, tucking the end of the bandage into a fold. "There you are, old chap. Right as rain."

Holmes swung around to face Sera, pulling his shirt off the table, but not putting it on. _Just how alright are you? _he asked with his eyes.

Sera felt her facade being peeled back by his gaze. _Don't, _she responded with her expression. _Not here. Not now. We have work to do.  
_

"What are ninjas doing in England?" asked Watson.

_Here goes nothing. _"They're after me," said Sera.

The two men eyed her, one steadily reassuring and one slightly confused but encouraging.

She took a deep breath that filled her lungs to bursting, then let it out slowly. "I had to flee Japan because my employer, a powerful _shogun, _found out I was secretly learning ninjitsu from his daughter's bodyguard. They won't let foreigners learn their skills in combat. It's a big dishonor for a white person, much less a woman, to practice it. Like spitting on their flag or something. Remember, the daughter of the _shogun_ was the one I attended. The bodyguard and I often had to work in tandem. We were a team, me caring for the lady's physical needs and he protecting her, guarding her." Sera's fingers stilled their rending of the handful of her skirt. "He was protecting me, too."

She continued, "I knew that the lady was fond of her guard. I respected him greatly, too. He was the second-best warrior in the _shogun's _ranks. When I found out he and the lady were in love and in bed, I didn't know what to do." Sera swallowed. Even recalling the events made her heart race. "The lady became pregnant by the bodyguard. In fear for the life of her baby and her lover, she came to me. So I helped them keep it hidden."

"Why did you start to learn ninjitsu?" asked Watson.

"The bodyguard knew as soon as the _shogun_ found out that he was the father, he would be executed. No offering of sepuku (which is ritual suicide, and considered a way to save honor), no hesitation. He knew that would leave the lady without a guard, and with an illegitimate child, probably disowned and out on the street. They decided that they would run away as soon as the baby was born. I was a part of this, and couldn't give them up or leave them to their fate. I would be killed too, for helping them hide it. So the bodyguard started to teach me how to defend the lady, should something happen to him.

"What happened?"

"The shogun found out that his daughter was pregnant. He was furious. We made a run for it, all three of us." Tears sprang to her eyes. "Both of them caught fatal arrows. I was hit here," she pulled down the front of her bodice just a few inches to show a rounded scar. "I'm the only one who survived. The lady, the guard and their unborn child all perished that day. I barely made it out of the country alive."

"How did you get across hundreds of miles of land to England?"

"I walked at first, hitched a ride when I could. As payment, I healed my way through Asia, heading west." She looked a bit proud. "It took me about two years to make it all the way to the United Kingdom. I had naught but the clothes on my back and an assortment of medicines in my trusty carpetbag. I found my brother, who took me in. About a month after that, he died suddenly in his sleep."

"So you have no family left?" asked Holmes.

"Correct. As much as it sounds insensitive, I did not know him very well. His passing grieved me, but not inordinately so. Soon after, I answered Mrs. Hudson's ad in the paper and came here. And here I've stayed."

There was silence in the room, thick and thoughtful. Holmes whistled softly. "I knew you were something, but I never thought..."

She smiled thinly. "Still waters run deep."

"Amazing," said Watson. "I believe we have the only half-Irish, half-Spanish, ninjitsu-trained herbalist landlady in all the world." He grinned at Holmes. "You know how to pick 'em, huh old cock?" Watson scrubbed his face, and walked to the door. "On that note, it's late. I suggest we all get to bed. We can devise a game plan tomorrow morning."

"I agree," said Holmes quietly. His aches and pains were catching up to him.

Sera crossed her arms, studying the floor until the doctor left the room. The moment Watson cross the threshold, she was in Holmes' arms. The detective held her tightly as she broke down, stroking her hair.

"I learned ninjitsu so quickly," she babbled, sobbing. "But I hated even the thought of killing someone. I was a healer, not a murderer." She bit her lip, cheeks wet. "I guess now I'm both."

Holmes tipped her by the chin to look at him. "You are not a murderer. You and I both know why we - that's right, _we _- killed tonight." He let the intensity of his words flow in his eyes. "I killed that man because he was trying to kill you."

Sera nodded, saying with a dry sob, "And I killed that man because he was going to kill you."

"Do you think defense of a loved one is an acceptable excuse?"

Sera took a shuddering breath, looking away. The enormity of the question ran circles in her mind. "It has to be," she whispered. "Because I would do it again in a heartbeat."

"As would I."

They held each other tighter for an indeterminate amount of time, until her hitching breath had calmed.

"Better?"

She nodded, her cheek to his chest.

"Let me tuck you in."

As when she was sick, Sera crawled between the sheets fully clothed, mentally and physically exhausted. Holmes settled the blanket over her snugly, then bent to kiss her lips tenderly.

"Would you..." Sera swallowed to wet her dry throat. "Would you sleep with me tonight, Sherlock? I don't want to be alone."

Holmes' eyes went wide for a brief moment, but a smile grew on his face. "Of course."

Sera scooted over and Holmes kicked off his shoes, nearly falling over in his haste. She began to laugh. "Don't hurt yourself, dear."

"Forgive my impatience," he said, voice deepening. "I've only been waiting a month and a half for you to ask."

She was gasping for air now, for laughing so hard. "Men! You are all dogs!"

As if to agree, he pinned her by pulling the blanket taut and buried his nose in her neck, growling. She squealed. "Down, boy!"

He nuzzled her ear, breath hot. "Will you let me under the covers?"

"Only if you behave yourself."

"Hmm," he said, nibbling at her earlobe. "I am not so sure I can..."

Eventually they settled on he atop the sheets with a blanket and she under all the layers. They lay facing each other on the edges of the pillow, scarcely blinking.

"I love you," she said, barely audible.

He leaned in and kissed her once more. "I love you, too."

They fell asleep with his arm slung over her, and her top leg on his. Both had faint smiles even in slumber. Neither had ever slept so well.


	22. Final Battle, A Proposal Under The Moon

Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair: simple bread and butter accompanied by ice-cold milk and scalding brisk black tea and an apple each. Holmes and Sera sat across from Watson, discussing the events of the last night and surreptitiously holding hands under the table. Holmes was tracing delightfully distracting patterns on, over, and between Sera's fingers and knuckles, practically making love to her hands. At least, that was the thought that colored Sera's cheeks.

"We can't go to the police," insisted Sera. "If this incident sparks a war, I could never forgive myself."

Holmes frowned, thinking. "I don't like it." He wanted Scotland yard involved, and scouring every cobble and nook in the city. He wanted his angel safe.

"But the lady is right," agreed Watson quietly. "This is essentially an international incident, and with trade just starting between our countries, it could be devastating. You are sure they will attack you again, correct? Then we just need to take care of the problem."

Holmes glared at his friend for suggesting such a thing in Sera's company, but she squeezed is hand as if to say, _It'll be alright. I know what must be done to save us all._

They returned to eating somberly._  
_

Suddenly Sera started, causing both men to look at her quizzically. "Zounds!" she exclaimed, dropping her bread onto her plate. "I have a delivery to make today!"

"To whom?" asked Watson. Holmes was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"A man by the name of Chang. He's the one who gave me all the tea samples. His infant son has a cold and needs my herbs."

"I don't like the idea of you going out today," growled Holmes. "Not after what happened last night."

The argued a bit after that, but in the end, Sera won out. She said she wouldn't leave a sick child and worried father hanging. "It's just the market," she reasoned with them. "It's crowded, and I can go incognito if it makes you feel better."

"I'm going with you," said Holmes firmly. His gaze dared her to disagree.

"As am I," affirmed Watson. "After all, look what happened the last time I let you two out of my sight."

"You two worry too much," said Sera, shaking her head with a longsuffering sigh.

SHXSSHXSSHXSSHX

True to Sera's prediction, the market was bustling. This did nothing to ease the alert, watchful mentality of her escorts. Watson's hand gripped the handle of his cane sword with more force than necessary, his limp a little less pronounced and his face set with a soldier's stoicism. His gun made a small bulge in his pocket. Sherlock's hand kept straying to the pistol under his coat, brushing it in a gesture that invoked equal parts anxiety and assurance. Their eyes were hard, guarded, roaming the crowd around them for anything suspicious as they flanked and trailed Sera.

Sera walked along with a hair more speed than normal, her straight back the only betrayal of her cagey emotions. She could feel eyes upon her, but whether it was the glancing gazes of merchants sizing her up for potential or the hostile, hawk-like stare of murderous ninjas, she could not tell. Any one of these people could be a ninja in disguise, she thought. All it takes is one jab with a poisoned bamboo skewer, and she would be dead before she hit the ground. She shivered, nervously glancing about. Hitching the hood up on her head, she ducked notice and walked faster. Holmes and Watson sallied up in response to her increased speed, and for a moment, Sera felt the detective's hand brush hers. It smoothed her hackles.

The trio approached the alley and entered it, rounding the corner out of sight of the street. Holmes was taken aback by the short Chinese man who appeared before them, in the middle of the alley. He nearly drew his gun when the man rushed forward with a greeting in his native tongue. But Sera took the Chinaman by the shoulders and answered him in the same language urgently. With a tight smile, she pressed the small package of herbs into his hand. The man glanced around, not seeming to care about the doctor and the detective, and whispered something to Sera that made her straighten, tense as whipcord, and look up to the roofs leering over them. There were three black heads looking back.

Holmes and Watson shouted at the same time, fumbling for their pistols. The Chinaman whirled and ran, yelling something over his shoulder that sounded like an apology.

"Fie on you!" Sera yelled back.

The dark shapes were rappelling down the walls, closing off their exits. No room or time to run, no chance to get off a clear shot without risking a ricochet. Sera and the two men went back-to-back instinctively, each facing a ninja.

"We're trapped," cried Sera.

"There's only three, we can take them," replied Watson tersely, taking aim at the grounded ninja.

"There could be more hiding," shot back Holmes, cocking his gun.

"Wait!" Sera said, shaking with adrenaline, finding her eyes riveted on the ninja before her. The man was walking slowly towards her, hands at his shoulders, eyes locked on hers. He gripped the knot that held his face mask over his jaw and the cloth fell away.

Sera's gasp of disbelief made Holmes and Watson glance over their shoulders. "Lao?"

"_Hai_," said the ninja, stopping ten feet from the trio. "I see you have made yourself at home in this country," he said in accented English. "More at home than you ever were in my master's employ."

"You know him?" whispered Watson.

"He carried out the execution plot. He's the best warrior in his province," muttered Sera back. "You're here to kill me? Because I tried to save a pair of lovers, and their child?"

"I'm here to kill you because you know our arts, and secrets about our people no white person may ever know and leave the homeland," replied Lao flatly. His face was devoid of emotion, and his tone dangerous. Chills crawled across Sera's skin.

"You won't touch her!" snarled Holmes. "Not while I live!"

"Agreed!" said Watson, eyes narrowing.

All it took was a hidden signal, and the other two ninjas rushed the doctor and detective. Distractions to occupy Sera's guards. Lao's wrist twitched, and Sera barely registered the glint of a hidden blade before she had to dance out of the way. Lao and his ninjas neatly separated her from Holmes and Watson, who were firing off shots at the black hooded men who moved too fast to be hit.

"Seraphima!" shouted Holmes. But the ninjas were doing their job well, aiming tiny explosions and metal stars at their feet and heads, keeping them busy.

Sera had her hands full with staying in one piece, literally, to worry about her friend and lover. But she knew in the back of her mind that they could take care of themselves. Already one of them shouted triumphantly as he managed to graze an attacker.

Lao was intent on gutting her like a fish. With every swipe, he seemed to get closer. Sera flipped a fallen window shutter into her bandaged hands, and when Lao swung next, his blade gouged the wood and stuck fast. Sera fought her instinct to turn and run, instead pulling the ninja closer, and headbutted him with all the spite she could muster, then kneed him in the groin with equal intensity. This fazed the man long enough for Sera to get a foothold on a pile of trash.

What she did next surprised even her. In a burst of energy and skill she hadn't displayed in years, she jumped from wall to wall, going up, _leap, land-leap, land-leap, REACH!_ until she rose to the roof's edge and scrambled onto it. Lao was beginning his ascent, hot on her heels.

Sherlock finally managed to put a deadly bullet in his ninja, and wheeled around to look for Sera. She was running across a roof, arms dragging in her wake like wings, with Lao closing the distance rapidly.

They were nearing the edge of the roof, where Sera would either try to jump the twenty feet to the next roof or fall to her death. Holmes paled, terror like he had never felt gripping him. "Watch out!" he shouted as Lao drew back his blade to decapitate the herbalist in one swipe.

It was at that moment Sera executed a forward flip that stopped her momentum, like a gymnast on a beam, and rolled out of it into a complete split. As she bent her head over her knee and protected the back of her neck and skull with her hands, Lao tripped over her, shocked and furious. The ninja tried to correct his momentum, but it was too late. He teetered on the edge of the roof, and with a cry fell off, out of sight. Sherlock heard his body hit the ground with a force that he knew was fatal.

The stillness was broken when Sera slowly leaned up, still split. "Sherlock?"

"Are you alright?" asked the detective urgently.

"I'm fine," she replied shakily. Looking down at her forward leg, she continued with a giggle, "But I think it's going to take me a while to get out of this." She put a hand to her temple in wonder. "How did I manage to get up here?"

At that, Sherlock burst into guffawing. Watson soon followed. The laughter from all three of them rang in the alley.

They had finally done it. The threats against Sera would never come to fruition. And as Sera joined Holmes on the ground, embracing him passionately, Holmes realized that the small bag he still had hidden under his shirt needed tending to. Post-haste.

Because if his calculations were correct, two nights later was the first full moon of summer.

A perfect time.

SHXSSHXSSHXSSHXSSHXS

The police had showed up in response to the gunshot complaints, and found the three dead Asian men. Strangely, they were stripped to their underwear. Those who heard the gunshots were questioned, but no one had anything worthwhile to say, just that two men and a woman had entered the alley, and come out after the firefight. No faces to remember, no descriptions to recall. They had melted into the crowd and disappeared.

Scotland Yard was stumped (shock of all shocks), said the newspaper the next day. Holmes, Watson and Sera breathed a sigh of relief, nursing their wounds and resting from the ordeal.

The next night, Holmes had urged Sera to go with him somewhere. He wouldn't say where, but the glimmer in his eye and the quirk of his mouth suggested great fun. Sera couldn't resist.

Finally, the first night of the season where they didn't need protection from the cool air off the Thames.

Holmes stopped at the gate to the park where that fateful attack had sparked their problems. Sera eyed it warily, as before, but for different reasons. "Come now," said Holmes softly as one calming a horse, extending his hand. "Let's make new memories for this place."

Sera swallowed, eyes full of childlike fear, and childlike trust. She slid her hand into his, and they began to walk the same winding path through the trees. The woods seemed embracing but not confining, soft but not deceptive. Stars twinkled in the sky, the moon hung pregnant and bright enough to light their way. By the time Holmes had led Sera to their destination, they were relaxed. She gasped in wonder as he led her forward, now walking backwards so better to see her face.

The moon garden was stunning, ethereal, bathed by luna and lovingly laid out in a clearing. Four paths at the cardinal points converged to a large marble sphere on a pedestal, imitating the moon fallen to earth. The plants all around it were white and silver: artemesia, sage, wormwood, lamb's ears. The gravel was white pebbles, reminiscent of a beach.

"It's beautiful," breathed Sera. Her heart was pounding, and her knees shaking. She knew there was a reason he brought her here.

When Holmes sank to one knee in front of her and stared up so lovingly into her eyes, she couldn't contain her tears. "Seraphima Dubois," he said, pulling the bag from around his neck and emptying it into his palm. "The months you have been in my life have been the happiest I've ever experienced." He held the ring he had crafted up to her. "Would you do me the greatest honor of making this happiness permanent? I love you. Please become my wife."

Sera was crying too hard to speak around the lump in her throat, so she nodded and stuck out her hand. The gold band slipped onto her finger, a perfect fit. She pulled him to his feet, both of them teary-eyed and smiling fit to crack their faces. Their passionate kiss sealed them together.

The moon bore witness to their souls twining, embracing, and melding.


	23. Author's Note 3

**(Author's Note)**

**Holy monkeys! My first fanfiction, complete! **

**Let me first apologize for dragging this out so much. I wanted it to be a baseline believable relationship, which means it had to grow, with kinda-fictional elements that made it 'pop'. By my reckoning, I pulled it off. I hope ya'll liked it as much as I did.**

**Thank you so much for you reviews, favorites, and general love. Every one of you was instrumental to bringing this story about. Without the reviews, I wouldn't have been so encouraged to continue, nor as inspired.**

**Keep an eye on me, I will be releasing a few shorter, easier-to-swallow pieces, mainly featuring Death Note the anime/manga (if you don't know what it is, search the 'tube of you' for episodes), Supernatural the TV series, and perhaps a dash of Harry Potter. **

**Take the poll on my profile, so I know which one to do first! I can't decide.**

**Review if I should write an epilogue! I see children in Sera and Holmes' future...  
**

**Signing off,**

**Kepouros  
**


	24. EPILOGUE: 2, 3, 4, 5

**Author's Note: As requested, here is the epilogue. I hope ya'll loved this story as much as I did. This final bow is a gift to all the people out there, my age, who still believe in happy endings.  
**

On the outskirts of London, where the city melted to country, there sat a house that was a bit of an oddball. It seemed to have started as a square, demure, neat hostel, but then was infected with a disease that caused it to bulge out in different directions. North was where the disease started: a nicely built wing of about three bedrooms and one bathroom, as though the disease was hiding its true nature under the guise of matching siding and complementing peaked roof. To the east, the guise was dropped further: a solarium at the height of the original structure with a glass roof and corners tuned to the sun's path. Westward, a sprawling garden double the size of the house planted with things that flopped over the tidy paths, invaded the wild around it, bushed unchecked, or sharply stabbed the air. To the south, there was a hedged wall of privet that songbirds loved to nest in, hiding a private moon garden. This was the one aspect of the landscaping that was tended to the point of perfection, as the entire household had a hand in its growth.

This vast estate was slowly illuminated by the rising sun, which reminded the sky it was blue and touched the clouds with pink. In the original part of the house, the light poured in through a crack in the curtains, shining on a moving mass of blankets. From within the mound, there came a giggle and a woman's singsong, "Wake up, sleepyhead."

In answer, there was a man's groan. "Seraphima, you exhaust me."

"Hello pot, I'm kettle," she replied sweetly. The covers moved again as she lightly urged him to roll over. "But as I recall..." A pause. "...we rather..." Another pause. "...exhausted each other."

A grumble from Sherlock. The mass under the covers shrank in size, but grew in height. The covers finally were thrown back halfway, revealing the slightly under dressed forms of Sherlock and Sera, wrapped in each other's arms. She lay on top of him, head to his chest, enjoying waking up slowly with her husband. The sheets had mussed her hair through the night, and it fell in cascades down her back. Sherlock stroked it lazily. "Whatever happened to proper sleeping times?"

She chuckled. "That went out the window when-" A kiss stopped her sentence.

They rested their foreheads together. "Ah, yes," murmured the detective. "I remember now."

"That _would _be hard to forget."

"Shall we notch the bedpost?"

"That practice has been the death of _two _bed frames already, dear." She yawned, leaning up. "I'll settle for an encore tonight."

He leaned up too, hands spanning her waist. "Deal." Anther liplock sealed it.

After a while they got up, dressed, and went downstairs. Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table, hewn by his own hands, and pulled up the newspaper (delivered by their dog, Benedict, earning a head scratch from Holmes). Sera went about preparing morning tea and biscuits. She could feel it when he glanced up from reading to look at her, and though she could not see it, his smile no doubt matched hers.

The oatmeal simmered away on the stove, and she sat down across from him with the teapot. "What's the verdict?"

"Three," he replied. "I'll inform Scotland Yard and collect the rewards today."

"Solving cases before breakfast, without even leaving a chair," Sera said, shaking her head. "I married up."

"You married up? Please. I married into the very cosmos," he replied. He folded down the newspaper. "That Red-headed League case requires my presence in the city."

Sera's eyes flashed to his, worrisome. But after a moment she bit her lip and nodded. "Take your pistol this time, please."

His eyes softened, taking in her tensed frame. He put a hand over hers, soothing out the fist. She calmed. "I will," he promised. "Watson and I are going to bring it to a close tonight. It will be solved."

The light of her love shining through her eyes made his heart flop, as though they were still courting. "No doubt they get their smarts from you."

Then came the sound they never tired of. As one, their hearts swelled with love. Four little pairs of feet pattered down the hall and exploded into the kitchen.

"_DADDY!"_ They chorused. All four children leapt into their father's lap. Sera laughed as he nearly spilled his tea trying to balance their wriggling, giggling bodies.

"Daddy, I had a dream!" Said the oldest, Bridget, her arms around his neck.

"No, me first!" Said a boy twin, Artemis.

"Wait your turn!" Replied his two-minutes-older brother, Hermes.

"Da-da!" The littlest one, Rebbecca, said around her thumb, rubbing sleepy eyes.

"Alright, alright," laughed Sherlock, and he settled in to have the dreams (that grew with each telling) of the night told to him.

Seraphima ladled up the oatmeal. As she set each bowl on the table, one child peeled off the mass and took their seat. Rebbecca crawled into Holmes' lap, and he joined her in blowing on the steaming bowl. Sherlock pulled his wife's chair out with one hand and she gracefully took her seat beside him.

"Dad, can we go with you today?" asked Artemis, hair askew.

"Please, dad? We'll be good," pleaded Hermes.

"You'll miss Samantha and John Junior's visit," reminded Holmes.

The boys made faces. They liked playing with Uncle Watson and Aunt Mary's children.

"You boys stay and take care of the house for me today, huh? Be the men of the household?"

They seemed enthused by that, though Bridget wrinkled her nose at the thought of boys, much less her brothers, being in charge. Sherlock caught Sera smiling at her daughter, and the parents shared a look. Bridget was already headstrong, much like her mother.

"God help the boy whose eye she catches," muttered Sera to Holmes, unheard by the chattering children.

"I almost pity the poor lout," agreed Holmes quietly. "But then I remember that I'll get ahold of him...where's that pistol, again?"

"Sherlock, no bodies floating in the Thames. She's only seven, yet."

"But we'll blink, and she'll be married..."

A silent, sad look passed between them. "Then we'll keep our eyes open," asserted Sera, her hand on his arm.

"And we'll enjoy the ride," agreed Holmes.

A little later, Holmes took his coat off the rack and slid it on. Four pairs of eyes watched him from below his waist, and one from above. Five pairs of arms hugged him tightly.

"I love you, Daddy!"

"Love oo, Da-da!"

Seraphima smiled, combing the back of his hair with her fingers. "I love you," she whispered. Their lips met above the children's heads. "Come home safe to me," she implored. She touched his face with both hands, blessing him with the words, a prayer of protection.

"I love you too," he said into her hair.

Watson, Mary, and their two children rattled up in their light buggy. The two families merged and greeted, and the children scampered off to play. Mary and Sera embraced. "How are...?" Sera started. Then she caught the glowing look about Mary, and the slight bump under her bodice.

"Again?" she asked excitedly.

Mary nodded, and the two laughed joyously and embraced again. Sherlock, overhearing, clapped the beaming Watson on the shoulder. "Good show, old boy."

"I know it will be a boy, I just know," said Mary. "But John says it will be a girl."

"Why am I the only one who thinks that?" asked Watson. "I'll bet on it!"

"I'll take that bet," said Holmes.

"Don't gamble on my baby," huffed Mary. But the wives just rolled their eyes as the men shook hands on ten dollars.

Sera hugged Holmes once more before he climbed aboard the buggy, pecking him on the lips. "See you tonight." The veiled look of promise in her eyes was not lost on Holmes.

"See you tonight," said Holmes, returning the look and softly tracing her lips with his thumb.

Then he climbed up onto the seat with Watson and, with a click at the horse, the men rode off.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Holmes began to snicker.

"Oh, shut up," said Watson goodnaturedly.

Holmes' snickers turned to gut-busting laughter. Watson was moved to try to push him off the buggy seat, but soon joined in.

"We're halfway towards our own rugby team, Holmes!"

"Shh!" said Holmes, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Don't tell the ladies!"

They laughed all the way to Scotland Yard.


End file.
